


the rush above me to oblivion

by acid_glue234



Series: you're just another song and dance [8]
Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, F/F, Fluff, Humor, Mild Language, New York City, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-07 20:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1912926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acid_glue234/pseuds/acid_glue234
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As if she’s not distracted enough, but Rachel’s wearing her Cheerio running shorts, which just barely cover her ass cheeks, and it’s totally not Rachel’s fault, because Santana told her she could have them, though she had no idea how good they’d look on Rachel when she originally gave them up. (Part VIII of the "you're just another song and dance" series, Santana's POV)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. no one needs to know we're feeling

It's one thing to be open and to let people in, but it's an entirely different thing to be vulnerable. Imagine ripping off a fresh bandage, only to have a riptide of blood gushing out of your wounds all at once, exposing every little insecurity and niggling fear you've ever had about life and the future and the past. 

It's horrifying, to learn that people you don't even know can see everything you're trying to rid or keep hidden. There's your most precious dreams and embarrassing secrets being revealed for all to see without your permission, and that right there, impermissible exposure, is the scariest, most fucked up kind of exposure. 

When letting somebody in mortifies you so much that it makes you run away and cry, does that say more about the kind of person you are, or the kind of people you let into your life? 

Santana's been asking herself this for days now, but the answer still hasn't become clear.  

Rachel looks at her now, with that same hope in her eyes, but the light behind them has dimmed into what Santana thinks is sympathy, or perhaps pity. "Did something happen that you want to share with me?" she keeps asking, because she cares about Santana more than any of her friends in high school ever had. 

But Santana never has an answer for her, because she can't tell her roommate about what happened that night. She barely knows what happened herself. Some things just deserve to stay private, and this is one of those things. 

\--

It's the middle of the night and Santana's sleeping in her socks, because the heater has been busted ever since they arrived back in New York. Their apartment really sucks sometimes. There's a huge ass hole in the wall, the toilet runs unless you jiggle the handle, the drawer in the kitchen completely falls apart unless you know how to open it correctly, and there's a dark corner in the loft that's been totally isolated ever since the light bulb blew out two months ago. 

It creaks in the middle of the night, scaring the shit out of Santana until she finds herself in Rachel's bed—not because she needs Rachel in order to fall back asleep, but because the nights are lonely sometimes, and Rachel's the one who said that whenever they were feeling lonely, they could be alone together—and their apartment is also super close to a hospital, which is kind of convenient—she lives with two of the biggest klutzes she knows—but it's also annoying to hear that damn ambulance siren every twenty minutes or so when she's trying to fall asleep. 

She always sees the red and blue flashing lights reflecting against her window, and then the sound approaches, faint at first, but then the blast of sirens sneaks up on her out of nowhere, and Santana has to stuff her face in a pillow to withhold from sticking her head out the window and cursing out the entire city for being so damn loud for no fucking reason. 

She's so used to the sounds of the city that she can easily distinguish the difference between police sirens and ambulance sirens, and yes, there is a difference. Coincidentally, it's a police siren blaring down their street now as Cole lies beside to her, resting sideways as she traces a loopy pattern up Santana's arm. 

Cole seems to be lost in thought, as she always is, eyes blinking slowly as she thinks about who-knows-what. Santana can never manage to understand what's going on in that girl's head; not like she easily could with Britt. 

Cole's cool though. She's nothing at all like the other women in Santana's life that she considers friends, so it's easy to keep from getting her feelings confused, which tends to happen a lot when it comes to girls. They're just so hard to get sometimes. They say one thing and mean another. They expect one thing and don't oblige. They take and they take and never even consider giving back. 

(Well, some girls, that is. Cole's not like that. Santana wouldn't exactly say the girl is simple, because that's so very far from the truth. She just thinks differently, and _that_ , Santana's used to.)

Cole's light touch against her skin tickles up and down, and Santana breathes out a sigh through her nose as she curls her toes in her socks. She’d put them on soon after their third round, because having sex with socks on is just—hell no. That's fucking unnatural.

The sheets are bunched up snug around Cole's waist. She's comfortable in her nudity—and she'd totally be lying bare on top of the covers if it weren't so cold in here—but despite what some may presume, Santana's not the same way. 

After everything is said and done, lying around buck naked is not really her thing. It was something she was only comfortable doing with Britt, because she trusted her and loved her and Brittany would never judge her for the imperfections and flaws of her body.

It's these irrevocable vulnerabilities and frigid temperatures that have Santana tugging on a sweatshirt, along with some comfy ankle socks, right after every round. She knows it gets on Cole's nerves, her odd need to hide away and cover up whenever they're not in the act of passion, but if Santana doesn't feel fully safe and okay with whom she's with, there's no way she's going to bare her entire body to the world, or her entire soul to someone who doesn't truly deserve it. 

The steady breathing, the rise and fall of Cole's chest, distracts Santana from her thoughts. She's been thinking too much lately. About stupid things; thoughts she probably shouldn't be entertaining. Cole doesn't care when Santana looks, but then her eyes lock and she's unwillingly staring at the other woman’s breasts every time an idea or memory captures her mind. Ideas and memories she wants to disappear and keep captive all at the same time. 

It's not fair sometimes; how vivid and visual her sense of memory is. As soon as she allows her eyes to close, there's images of smooth skin and pink lips and doe eyes and soft hands and silky hair. There's a sexy voice whispering into Santana's ear, telling her what to do, where to touch, how hard, too much, not enough. 

Santana breathes raggedly, haunted by these visuals that feel so distant, yet the memories aren't as old as they feel. The sheets bustle around her waist as Cole sits up slightly, eyes narrowed on Santana curiously. "Who do you think about when we fuck?" she asks, licking her lips as she fluffs up a pillow and holds it against her chest.

There's no use in even trying to deny it—because Cole's not stupid; she's actually unnaturally smart for someone who kills a billion brain cells a week—but Santana tries anyway, telling Cole, "I think about Rachel McAdams." There's a poster of the starlet hanging on the wall right behind them, so it's not severely out of the realm of possibilities, but Cole can smell the scent of lies like a greyhound senses danger. 

"Bull," she drawls lazily, taking Santana's hand in her lap to play with. "Shit."

Rolling her eyes, Santana smiles and then flexes the muscles in her hand when Cole tries to interlace their fingers. She's not really into that hand-holding shit after sex. Cuddling either. Most nights, Cole doesn't really care, but tonight it's cold, and when Santana had resisted her embrace earlier there was a brief disagreement and then some whining. 

Santana almost kicked her out, but they don't exactly live in the safest neighborhood. It'd be a bitch move to make Cole go home, so Santana had feigned exhaustion until the next wave of pleasure took over. They'd had sex again, which warmed them up a bit, and Cole had eventually dropped the cuddling and snuggling thing, thankfully. 

Santana grasps a bundle of sheets in her fist and then says, "It used to be Brittany." She licks her lips as her thoughts wander, but she hastily squashes the memories bombarding her mind. Brittany is the last person she'd like to think about right now, especially after just fucking another woman. She sighs and rubs at her eyes. "But now it's no one."

That's a lie too. But it's one told in vain. Told with a purpose. Santana tells lies whenever she's uncomfortable, awkward, nervous, because the truth is, she _does_ think about somebody else whenever they're having sex. Santana thinks about this—well, this beautiful girl who bites into her lip with a tempting gaze whenever she's in the conniving mood. Santana thinks about the rareness of her breathy laughter, the curve of her eyebrow whenever she's thinking, and that blunt honesty that is both incredibly irritating and endearing. 

Santana thinks about it way more than she should, so she closes her eyes and tries to picture Rachel McAdams instead of—

"Fuck, dude," Cole mumbles, turning over onto her back, and Santana averts her eyes, because she can just picture the pity on Cole's pretty face without even looking at her. "That's sadder than imagining I'm somebody else." But is it? Is it, really? To be totally honest, Santana would much rather have sex for the pleasure of it than as a way to psychologically imagine she's with someone that she could never realistically have.

Cole blinks up at the ceiling, and Santana rolls over to mirror her position. "Sure. I guess. Who do you imagine?"

"Elise, mostly," Cole says, stretching her arms up with a drowsy yawn. Her light eyes go blank for a moment, mind lost in the memories of an unrequited love, but then a second goes by and Cole's back, all teasing eyes and curved lips. "She looks a lot like you, so it's not too hard to pretend. Except her boobs are bigger than yours, so there's that."

Santana elbows her in the side with a small smile. The teasing lightens the mood, and Santana tries not to think about how Brittany-esque that talent is—the ability to make strained situations into funny ones off the drop of a hat. Santana glances down at her sweater-clad chest. "Do you mean to tell me I got these knockers done just to fall short?"

"You're listening skills have become impeccable over the last few months, dude. I'm impressed," Cole jests, tugging at the rumpled sheets, while Santana tries to remember if Cole's ever used a word as big as impeccable before. "All you ever used to hear is the air between your ears."

Cole really has some nerve calling Santana an airhead, considering how many times Santana has to repeat a question whenever the other girl is still coming down from a high. She would make an argument out of it, but it's much too late for a debate, so she just agrees and says, "I had to gain _some_ listening skills living with the Wonder Twins," she admits, trying not to smile too widely at the mention of the two people who have become like family to her. "I don't think they ever stop talking."

Cole laughs and then says, "I like your friends."

Shrugging her shoulders, Santana snuggles deeper into the sheets and covers the bottom half of her face. "I like them too," she whispers. It's not much of a secret, but an admittance of how fond she's become of those two dorks is kind of embarrassing sometimes, especially in regard to their more than sadistic past. 

"Who do you like more?" Cole runs a hand through her curly blue hair and then props herself up on her elbow. "Kurt or Rachel?"

"Henry."

"He's not an option."

"Fine," Santana mutters, eyes focused sleepily on the ceiling, "Rachel."

"Because she's hot, right?"

Santana barks out a laugh. "Wha—no, Cole," she says, lowering her voice as not to wake up her slumbering roommates. "Rachel, because I'm closer to her than I am with Kurt." And because she's kind of pissed off at Kurt for a myriad of reasons she'd rather not get into right now. 

Cole bites down on the corner of her lip. There's a teasing gleam in her eyes, but her voice is dead serious when she asks, "So, are you saying she's not hot?"

Santana traces the striped pattern on her sheet with the tip of her finger. "I didn't say that," she murmurs, crinkling her nose, because of course Rachel's hot—she would have to be completely blind not to have noticed, especially now with Rachel's whole New York makeover—but she doesn't tell Cole that. Cole would never let her live it down if she started gushing on about how tight Rachel's ass looks in those blue skinny jeans she wears now that the girl has started jogging in the morning.

She'll even admit to sneaking a peek sometimes—but only to herself, because that's kind of pervy—and imagining what Rachel's ass looks like without jeans or panties, but that's as far as her thoughts ever take her. Bare butts are the boundary line, because checking out your straight roommate is a big no-no, especially after drunkenly kissing the fuck out of her on New Years.

Cole's still staring at her curiously, waiting for a response, so Santana shrugs again, and then says, "I picked her over Kurt because she's just better than him in every way."

" _Every_ way?" Cole drawls, pursing her lips. She's quiet for a moment, and then, "You fucked her, didn't you?"

Santana's face contorts painfully. She honestly can't think of anything she'd like to do least than have sex with Rachel. "I'd never go there with Berry," she scoffs, hitting Cole in the stomach with a pillow at the sound of her stifled laughter. "It's not funny. Rachel's my roommate, you sicko. She's my _friend_."

Cole continues laughing, tears brimming at the corners of her eyes. "That didn't stop you from falling for Brittany," she says, but it's not done maliciously. Cole could never purposefully say something mean to a fucking fly, never mind a human being.

Santana groans, averting her eyes to the window. "I hate myself for telling you these things."

"You're quite the blabbermouth when you're drunk."

"I'm quite the kisser, too, apparently," she adds unthinkingly, and then wishes she hadn't gone for that extra glass of wine at dinner. What the fuck is wine anyway? A fucking truth serum, or some shit?

Cole looks at Santana, studies her. "You're...wait, what?"

There's no use in lying. Admittedly, Santana's getting kind of sick of it. "I kissed Rachel," she whispers, wincing slightly, because she still hates thinking about that night. The whole thing is a bit of a blur. All she remembers is peanut butter, soft lips, and Rachel's shocked expression that Santana obviously mistook as arousal in her drunken state. Mortified doesn't even begin to explain how she felt the morning after. 

The perplexed expression on Cole's face is entirely warranted. After all, Santana totally just laughed off the idea of ever doing anything sexual with her roommate, and now this? Cole's upper lip twitches as a puzzled smile curves across her lips. "Rachel _McAdams_?" she inquires, and then rolls her eyes up to the ceiling. "Santana, I know you're obsessed with the woman, but wet dreams are called dreams for a reason. They're not real, dude."

"Cole, no." Santana crinkles her nose, eyes squinted in annoyance. Pressing her lips together, she lets out a long sigh, and then explains, "I'm talking about _Rachel_ Rachel. My roommate? We like—kissed, or made out, I guess. I was a bit tipsy and it was fucking New Years, you know, and Rachel was there, so I..."

"You mauled her mouth."

That's...actually a pretty good description of what happened. "Yeah. Basically."

"What did Rachel do?"

Santana rubs at her temple, suddenly exhausted with this whole conversation. "I don't know," she groans, running a hand through her messy hair. "That whole night is kinda hazy."

Cole smirks. "Hot."

"No. Not hot. Embarrassing. We didn't talk for like a month after that." Santana squeezes her eyes shut and pinches the bridge of her nose. "For someone with such a big mouth, Rachel sure knows how to give the silent treatment."

"Big mouth?" Cole drawls lazily. " _Hot_."

"Are you hearing anything I'm saying right now?" Santana asks, a bit annoyed, but then Cole just nods with this silly grin, and well, Santana's kind of gained a soft spot for sweet smiles ever since becoming friends with Rachel Berry. “Anyway,” she continues, sitting up against the headboard, "Eventually Rachel mentioned the kiss and we had the most awkward conversation ever. Like, it was really horrible, and I might have said something about a lesbian crush, which definitely doesn't mean what you want it to mean." 

Santana's expecting a riot of oohs and aahs, because apparently Cole thinks she and Rachel would make the cutest couple ever, which—gag, ew, retch—will never ever happen as long as Santana's alive. Dating Rachel would be like, hard as shit. She's the definition of high maintenance, never mind completely loco about relationships. Of course Santana likes the girl—they wouldn't have become such close friends so fast if she didn't—but she doesn't like her like _that_.

To be honest, she's never even entertained the idea. Rachel is sweet, and has this infectiously bubbly laugh, and whenever she's sad it's the worst thing in the world, but there's a line you just don't cross when it comes to straight girls you're living with. Not only is it annoying when people don't think Santana can be _just friends_ with a close girl friend of hers, but it's also been proven true circa Valentine's Day '14. Now, she's out to prove everyone wrong, and it definitely shouldn't be too hard with Rachel Berry as her friend. 

Cole grins crookedly at the thought. "I would've paid money to watch that."

Santana ignores the comment, because there's a lot of things Cole would pay to watch (and only about half of them are legal). “So, yeah,” she murmurs, twisting her fingers together on top of the sheets. "Everything was finally back to normal, but then last weekend happened." Santana scrunches up her nose, and then pushes back a smile, because what she did was terrible, but it also kind of wasn't. "Now we're back to not talking and I feel like shit every time she looks at me with those eyes of hers, because I know she knows what I did, and I think she knows I liked it."

Cole's eyes go cross-eyed at Santana's explanation, and Santana almost feels bad about it, until she realizes that's just Cole's poor attempt at trying to roll her eyes. "You two have the most on and off relationship, I swear," she huffs, propping herself up on her elbow, but then pauses to lift an eyebrow in question. "Wait, what happened last weekend?"

It feels as if the weight of the world is on her shoulders as she clenches her hand into a fist and whispers, “I…had sex with Quinn." It's the first time she's said it out loud, and it leaves a strange taste in her mouth. Santana's still not really sure how she feels about it, but if the fact that the person she imagines when on top of Cole has hazel eyes with short blonde hair and a smirk so tempting she could sell oxygen to a dead man is any indication...well, then, Santana has reason to worry. Much reason. 

Sometimes, Santana still can't believe it. She slept with _Quinn Fabray_. She stripped down, got naked, and had sex with Quinn, one of her oldest friends, and then snuck out of the hotel room like a little scaredy bitch. That's a Puck move right there, and Santana's so not proud of her actions, but then again, she had sex with Quinn fucking Fabray.

"Wait a second..." Cole squints. She obviously thinks she's onto something, so Santana gives her a moment, "Oh, you mean that repressed bitch you're always bitching about never calling you?"

That's one way of putting it, but Santana kind of resents that. She never bitches about Quinn's lack of communication; it's just, well, how is she supposed to feel when a whole three days go by without any signs from Quinn that what happened between them actually fucking happened?

"Fucking Fabray," Santana mutters under her breath, and then absently wonders when her chest got so tight. "Of course she doesn't fucking call after we fucked. It's such a Fabray move. The bitch."

She lets out a shaky intake of air and tries not to read too much into it. The past is the best thing to adhere to, as history has been known to repeat itself. Santana can already see sophomore and junior year of high school happening all over again. Sleeping with random people just to pretend they were the person she really wanted. Thinking longingly of how things would be if she was stronger, braver. It's the same thing every time Santana's confused about her feelings, and she's really getting annoyed with herself. 

Cole tugs her bottom lip between her teeth. "Okay, okay, I think I get it," she says with this all-knowing look. "You have a very strange habit of sleeping with your friends, right? First Brittany, now this Quinn girl? The only best friend you haven't slept with is Rachel—"

"And Henry," Santana adds helpfully.

"—who doesn't count for multiple reasons," Cole says, smiling coyly. "Now, stay with me. I think I'm on to something here." Santana shifts sideways and waits, because this could be awhile. It's not everyday Cole has a revelation. "You know, it's actually quite simple if you really think about it. You're into Rachel, so you had sex with Quinn, hoping to squash the emotions you're obviously confusing as lust."

Santana laughs, but only because that's the most ridiculous explanation she's ever heard, and there's been quite a few too, from Kurt and Rachel, mostly. Kurt thinks she's dumb to feelings or something—which, fuck him—and Rachel likes to think Santana's just super sensitive and pushes people away because she's afraid of getting hurt.

Santana has the world at her fingertips. She's hot, so she uses it to her advantage. Women love her, and she loves women. It's not algebra or fucking rocket science. It's life, and just because she's not jumping out of her chair to start dating again doesn't make her emotionally stunted. Brittany is...well, she _was_ the love of Santana's high school life, but high school is over. Everyone moves on in their own way, and this is Santana's way. Fuck going celibate. She's not Quinn fucking Fabray. Hell, Quinn Fabray isn't even Quinn fucking Fabray anymore.

"That was literally the worst psycho-analysis I have ever heard, Cole. I don't like Rachel, and I do _not_ fall for every girl I kiss," Santana says, because it that were true, she'd be head over heels for at least a quarter of the lesbian population in Bushwick. "If I'm even into anyone right now, it’s…probably Quinn. She just—" Santana winces guiltily as her eyes focus on the hands in her lap. "I kinda can't stop thinking about her."

Cole looks like she wants to argue her point, but it's already three in the morning, and they're both tired, so she eventually drops it and says, "You gotta picture?"

Santana does have a few pictures of Quinn in her photo library, in fact. They've been building up over the years, and she's never gotten around to deleting them. Also, Quinn's not the ugliest girl in the world, so whatever; it's nice having pretty faces in her phone.

"Dude," Cole says, squinting her eyes against the brightness of the screen. "Dude, she is...I think...Santana, you lucky fucking bitch." She brings the phone closer to her face and stares for a moment, and then zooms into the picture. "Her eyes are like, sexy fireballs heading toward the moon."

Strangely, that's probably the best analogy she's ever heard in regard to Quinn's unique eye color. Santana cranes her neck to look over Cole's shoulder, and she swallows thickly at what she sees. Quinn's so naturally beautiful, and Santana wonders why she never paid much attention to it up until now. Probably too caught up in Brittany to give a shit about anyone else, but fuck, now that's Santana's had a taste, she wants more. It's a greedy type of hunger she feels as her eyes carefully analyze every picture of Quinn that Cole scrolls through. 

"Yeah," she practically whispers, mouth dry. "Quinn is a bitch, but..."

Cole nods blankly in agreement. "I mean, damn, if she were my friend, I'd be into her too," she laughs, smirking as she hands the phone back over. "In more ways than one."

A blush heats up Santana's neck as she looks at a picture of herself and Quinn together. In the photo, Quinn is in the midst of rolling her eyes at Santana as she holds up bunny ears behind Quinn's head. Leaning back against the pillows, Santana smiles crookedly and then shuts her phone off. 

She is going to be so tired in the morning. 

\--

Today is a real shitty day, because Rachel is mad at her, still, which kind of happens on a regular basis now. The annoying thing is she doesn't even know what she did wrong this time (or at least she pretends not to know). 

Admittedly, Santana's starting to get used to Rachel's mood swings. The girl is on top of the world one minute, and then the next she's closing up or pouting about something, and Santana knows it's about her, that she's the one who did or said something wrong, because Rachel's salty attitude is always aimed at her. 

She wants to make Rachel feel better, because it's fucking hell when the girl isn't singing or baking or smiling around their apartment, but Santana's learned there's not much she can do about Rachel's hissy fits than let a few days go by where they can both cool off and go about their business until Rachel's Rachel again. 

Rachel's been in one of those moods for the last five days, ever since they got back from Lima. Santana refuses to tell Rachel what happened—the reason why she was crying outside her house in the freezing cold—but she did apologize over twenty times already for ditching her at the reception, so what's the fucking problem? Kurt has no explanations, and it's not like he's around anyway to enlighten Santana on what she's so blatantly missing. 

Against every argument in her head telling her not to, Santana tries to create peace one more time this morning, but Rachel's having none of it, refusing to even lift her head as she writes out their grocery list at the kitchen counter. Santana stands behind her, rolling her eyes in frustration, because _this_ , this is what she's had to live with for five months now. 

On normal days, where Rachel doesn't act like a diva, it's great. They get along without a problem, doing basically everything together, but then Santana makes one wrong move, like flirting with a hot girl at the register, and Rachel goes into scary mode with a whole rant about how treating women objectively is a double standard, and how can she, being a lesbian, stand to objectify girls based on their boobs and ass when what's inside is so much better?

 _Bullshit_. 

Santana knows that's a non-issue. Rachel's a fucking hypocrite, because even she has made comments in the past about her classmate's less than stellar appearances. They're mostly said to make herself feel better (remember The Gap?), because not even Rachel Berry is immune to insecurity, so Santana tries to reel it in and actually think about what could really be bothering Rachel.

She's got nothing.

Sliding a stool back, Santana sits down a seat away from her disgruntled roommate. "Rach?" she tries.

It's like she's not even here as Rachel continues to scribble down a bunch of nonsense on one of her ripped out floral stationary papers.

“Rachel.”

"Santana, I'm busy," is all she says, without even looking up. 

This is getting exhausting, and Santana's done with waiting it out. "Funny, because it seems like you're somehow _always_ busy whenever you're mad at me," she quips, but Rachel doesn't even look her way at the annoyance in her tone, so Santana grabs the grocery list out of Rachel's hand. 

She stands and holds it up out of Rachel's reach. This isn't the first time she's played keep away with Rachel, and Santana knows how much Rachel hates it when she does this, but there's no way Santana's going to feel bad about it this time.

But Rachel doesn't even move out of her seat. Folding her arms over her chest, she peeks up at Santana from under her lashes. "This behavior is incredibly immature, Santana," she huffs, arching an eyebrow, "and I would greatly appreciate it if you'd give me back my list."

"You're one to talk about immaturity, Berry. I said I was sorry," Santana repeats for the nth time, and it's kind of annoying how Rachel's more upset with _her_ over this than Kurt. He left her stranded more than anything since he was the one with the keys. Sighing, Santana lowers the grocery list back down to the counter. "What else do you want from me?"

Rachel averts her eyes as she grabs the list and stands up from her stool. "I'm going to the grocery store."

Oh, so _that's_ how she's going to play it. Okay. Whatever. Santana can play too. As Rachel grabs her coat from out the closet, Santana rushes to sling her messenger bag over her shoulder. "Cool. I'm coming with."

"No, Santana. I think..." Rachel runs a hand through her hair, looking unsure and a bit tired of arguing. Her breath catches in her throat when Santana traps her against the counter, but Rachel manages to get her words out, whispering, "I think we need to stop being so co-dependent on each other."

"You realize you're doing that deflecting thingy again, right?" Santana says, completely ignoring Rachel's last comment, because hell if she's being the clingy one. Rachel's the one who said they're best friends, and this is just how Santana is with her friends. She's either all in or all out, and it kind of hurts to discover Rachel's second-guessing their friendship. "Look, if you're tired of being around me, just say it, because all of this avoiding shit is pissing me off."

Rachel scrunches up her nose and then brushes her bangs to the right side of her face. "Santana, I love your company, but I think Kurt was right about the way we're always together," she admits, and Santana won't pretend it doesn't bother her that Rachel wants to get away from her. She thought they were finally okay after clearing the air about that whole kiss debacle, but it looks like Santana was wrong by the weird way Rachel's acting, still. "We're becoming too needy for each other, Santana, and I don't mean to be rude by saying this, but you have a habit of doing that with the women in your life."

"Wait," Santana murmurs, subconsciously taking another step forward. "Doing what?"

Rachel steps away, her back flat against the counter. "I, um...I'm a naturally independent person, Santana. I had to be that way because of all the trials and tribulations of high school, but you..." Rachel winces apologetically, but Santana doesn't want her pity. She wants the truth, and that's exactly what Rachel gives her. "In high school, you and Brittany were practically attached at the hip, and I am a little concerned that I'm becoming your new Brittany."

Santana tries not to laugh, but it happens anyway, and Rachel looks so taken aback that Santana almost laughs again, because that is the dumbest thing she's ever heard. Santana's used to girls being jealous of her relationship with Brittany. Hell, she's even used to girls being jealous of the crazy sex she's had with her ex, all thanks to that stupid sex tape, but this is the first time a girl has been afraid of _becoming_ Brittany.

Santana feels bad for laughing as soon as she sees the downtrodden look on Rachel's face. Shit, now Rachel's sad again, and that's even worse than a hell-bent Rachel. Santana knows how irritating it is to not be taken seriously, so she hurriedly swallows her laughter and takes Rachel's hand in her own. Rachel flinches at the sudden contact, and Santana almost thinks she made the wrong move until Rachel finally relaxes and squeezes her hand tightly.

"Don't compare yourself to her, Rach," Santana says softly, ducking her head down to catch Rachel's eyes. They're so dark and heavy as they come up to meet Santana's, and the sight kind of breaks her heart. "That relationship is in no way similar to what this is. You're my only true friend right now. You like me for me, not because I'm good at sex, or because my dad is a plastic surgeon, or because I can get you free coffee." Rachel smirks at the mention of free coffee, and Santana feels kind of awesome for finally making her girl smile again. "You're my friend because we somehow just click, okay? So fucking sue me for wanting to be around you a lot."

Rachel nods with a timid smile. She gingerly takes Santana's other hand and wraps it around her waist so that they're hugging. It's a little awkward having her arms around Rachel's waist with her being so much shorter, but she adjusts and rests her chin on Rachel's shoulder with a smile. 

Rachel breathes in against Santana's neck. "And I'm sorry for implying our friendship is a replacement for what you lost with Brittany," she says, practically whispering the words into Santana's ear. "After listening to how you feel, I now know that what we have is different from what—"

Santana cuts her off with a snort. "Can we just go grocery shopping already?" she asks, rolling her eyes as she pulls away. "All of this sissy shit is making me nauseous."

Rachel blushes in embarrassment. "Then imagine how I feel," she shoots back, letting go of Santana's hand in order to pull on her jacket.

Santana's fingers feel bare and naked without Rachel's touch, but she doesn't mention that. They just had a whole five minute discussion about being too co-dependent. Talk about regression. "Bitch," she says, under her breath, but loud enough for Rachel to hear. "You know you love me."

Rachel pauses before looking over her shoulder as she slides the metal door open. There’s an odd quirk to her upper lip as she smiles and says, “Maybe a little."

\--

Food shopping with Rachel is an olympic event. Their list isn't even that long, but Rachel's Jewish, so bargain shopping is a must. There are coupons involved, and 2 for 1 deals, and weekly specials, and this scanner thingy on Rachel's iPhone app that she uses and abuses way too much. 

By the time they get to the counter, Santana is so exhausted from their journey down every fucking aisle that she's ready to go home and hibernate, but then they run into Kurt and Henry outside where the shopping carts are parked, and Santana absolutely sees red when her eyes land on Kurt.

Ever since they got back from Lima, he's been practically non-existent. He spends so much of his time at Henry's place that it wouldn't be much of a surprise if Kurt told them he was moving out of their apartment to live with his boyfriend sometime in the near future.

No matter how nice the idea of inheriting Kurt's room in the loft is, Santana can't really find it within herself to smile; not while in the incredibly compromising position Kurt's put her in.

Kurt was her friend first, technically, so she can't go breaking those confidentiality rules, but Henry is her homeboy, and keeping this secret from him is fucking killing her. She'd tell Rachel what she knows, but it sucks being in this position, and with Rachel trying to concentrate on school and auditions, Santana knows her roommate really doesn't need the extra stress.

Basically, Kurt is a fucking cheater who cheats, and it makes her furious, because Henry is a prince, and he doesn’t deserve shit like that. Henry’s like, a million and one times better than that greased garden gnome will ever be, but Kurt wants to throw all of that away for a fucking one night fuck?

Henry's been doing this weird thing lately where he's trying to become a vegetarian, so when he and Rachel start talking about the benefits of a meat-free diet, Santana grabs Kurt by the collar and brings him close to whisper, “Listen up, Elton, because I'm only going to say this once—"

"Santana, what in heaven's na—"

"I’m not going to tell Henry, but I hope you feel like shit for what you did.”

Kurt pauses and looks at Santana as if _she's_ the one who's crazy. Sighing, he pries each and every one of her individual fingers off of his shirt before straightening his posture. “And _what_ did I do, exactly?”

Santana feels bile rising in her throat just thinking about it. “Don’t play dumb, Porcelain. Tina told me all about your sizzling night with Blaine.” 

Kurt makes a face at the mention of Tina. “I swear, that girl is trying to sabotage my entire life. Her delusional obsession to 'hag the fag' is getting extremely ridiculous.”

Santana blinks, because what the fuck does that even mean? "Speak English for once, Pansy Boy."

“I didn’t sleep with Blaine, Santana. Perhaps you should check your sources better next time," he says huffily, peeking over his shoulder to make sure they're a fair distance away from Henry and Rachel. They are, but he lowers his voice into a whisper anyway. "If you must know, Blaine and I snuck away to a stairwell and had a very long, heartfelt discussion about the future. I needed closure, and Blaine needed to realize I wasn't coming back to him.”

Santana purses her lips and then glances over Kurt's shoulder. Behind them, Rachel's gesturing her hands around all excitedly, mouth moving at a hundred miles per second, probably explaining how being a vegetarian will improve Henry's digestive tract, or something like that. Santana glances away before she can smile at the sight. "So, you didn't do the dirty with Blaine Warbler?"

"Santana, I would never do anything to jeopardize what I have with Henry," Kurt exasperates, seemingly frustrated with Santana's inability to mind her own business. She's been working on that, but it's not easy. When nothing exciting is happening in her own life, she has a bad habit of meddling into everyone else’s. “I never used to believe in silly things like fate, but Henry is my soulmate,” Kurt says, practically glowing like a firefly. “I love him."

Santana can't pretend not to know what Kurt means. Henry's amazing in every fucking way possible. If the both of them weren't gay, she would have married him ages ago. That boy is like her spirit animal or something.

Santana smiles and tries to withhold from tenderly punching Kurt in the shoulder, because that's way too butch for her style. Instead, she says, "That's so cute it's almost disgusting."

Kurt rolls his eyes. "I'll take that as a compliment, I guess."

“Then say thank you, you mannerless whore.”

There’s a slow eyebrow raise that tells her Kurt is not impressed, but she knows he loves her anyway. That’s just how things work around here.

\--

When Santana thinks about stupid things for too long, she obsessives over them. It takes over her mind, and she eventfully finds herself thinking about it _all the fucking time_. It’s a basic instinct she didn’t even know she acquired until the very first (and only) time she fell in love. 

People think she’s incapable of feeling things, because apparently she’s a cold-hearted bitch with no consideration for anyone’s emotions except her own, but that’s not completely true. Maybe a little true, sure, but not _completely_. 

Santana cares. She cares about a lot of people, and she is not dumb to feelings, no matter what Kurt says behind her back. She takes care of her own and leaves the rest of the fuckers behind, but why should that make her a bad person? 

Just because she doesn’t give a fuck about shit that other people care about doesn’t make her heartless. She’s a good person. She gives her seat up to elderly people on the bus. She drops a quarter into that stank, homeless man’s jar every morning on her way to Cobblestones. She memorizes her regulars’ coffee orders and even adds some extra cream to their frappes whenever she’s in an extra cheery mood. 

Now, do bad people do that? No, they don’t. Bad people kick puppies and shit, and Santana would never kick a fucking puppy, so there. Not a bad person. 

Actually, if anyone ever asked her straight up, Santana would tell them she was the best person she knew (right behind Berry, of course, because that girl donates to about a million animal charities a year, and once went overseas during the summer to help rebuild abandoned homes in Africa or something). 

But Kurt has some nerve to fucking judge, saying she’s dumb to feelings. Like, what does that even mean? She’d never outwardly admit it, but she cries just as much as the next person. She’ll never let anyone see her cry (unless they’re Rachel, of course, because who else is going to hold her when her nose starts running?). That’s just fucking embarrassing, especially when she gets caught crying over stupid shit, like sleeping with one of her best friends. 

It was an emotional night, okay? What do you want from her? She didn’t get her heart broken or anything like that. That’s not even close to what happened. She cried because she was overwhelmed, and when she’s overwhelmed, weird chemical reactions start going on in her body, and she does crazy things, like escape from hotel rooms as soon as Quinn falls asleep, and then call Puck to pick her up and drive her home, but not before stopping at the hotel bar and knocking back a few. 

It wasn’t one of her proudest moments, but she remembers every second of it. She remembers the flirting, the touching, those hazel eyes tempting her, those pink lips curving suggestively, practically begging Santana to follow her upstairs. She remembers Quinn’s gentle touch, the press of her fingertips against Santana’s cheek as Quinn caressed her face in the palm of her hand to bring Santana closer for their first of many kisses.

She remembers every single moment of that night, and it haunts her. But in a good kind of way, you know? She ran because she was freaked out, but the experience was amazing. Long ago, Brittany said it was better with feelings, but maybe she was wrong; maybe it's just better with the people you trust most. 

That night—before their one time thing became a two time thing—Santana had made a joke about U-haul trucks. She’d promised Quinn that she wasn't going to be _that_ type of girl, and it was an easy promise to make, because she's never been that type of girl before (unless Brittany was involved), but now Santana's slowly starting to realize that maybe she is that type of girl; the type who waits by the phone after a first date, wondering if the other woman will call first and ask her out on second. It's pathetic, how both exhilarating and draining the thought of waiting for Quinn feels. 

The've been back in New York for almost two weeks now, and Santana’s still stressing over what all of this means for herself and Quinn. Santana checks her phone, but there are no text messages from her. She goes online, but her inbox is void of emails from Quinn. She logs into Facebook, but Quinn's never online. Skype is a no-go as well. 

Santana even drops so low as to ask Kurt if he’s heard from Quinn, but he just gives her one of these looks with a shake of his head, like he knows something she doesn't. That cautious expression always seems to be on his face whenever Rachel is in the near vicinity, and Santana wonders what that's all about for all of four seconds before she has to leave for work. 

Rachel grabs her stuff and comes with her, and on the way there, Santana sucks up her pride to wonder, "So, I never got a chance to ask. What went down with you and Hudson at the reception? I don't need to bust any balls, do I?"

Rachel's fingers turn white as she grips on tighter to the strap of her bag. "We...we didn't really talk as much as I think he would've liked, but we finally got the who-broke-up-with-who debacle straightened out." Santana nods as they squeeze through a crowd of people watching these break dancers roll around on top of a thick piece of cardboard. The music is too loud to continue talking, but once they turn a corner, Rachel asks, "What about you?"

Santana looks at her sideways. "What _about_ me?"

"Are you okay?" Rachel arches an eyebrow, but Santana doesn't get it. Why wouldn't she be okay? "Brittany and Sam?" Rachel reminds her, and oh. "How are you dealing with the fact they're together now? I know it must be hard for you."

"Um." Santana breathes out a sigh into the cool morning air. She had almost forgotten all about that, her mind so distracted with thoughts of Quinn recently. Her expression is stony for all of two seconds before she tries for nonchalant. "If Sam ever hurts her, I'll stab him in the face, but other than that, I hold no anger towards them. I still love Britt, but it's been six months. It's about time I let go and move on."

Rachel looks surprised at her response, and Santana kind of resents that. She knows how to be mature about awkward situations. It may not always be easy looking at things from an unbiased perspective, but she tries, and it's important to her that people know that. 

"That's..." Rachel begins, smiling weakly. "That is a very good way of looking at it, Santana."

Santana shrugs. "Just don't say you're proud of me, because I heard enough of that from you when I first moved here."

"But I am proud of you." Rachel glances up at her shyly as she moves closer to Santana and loops their arms together. "You've grown up so much and you're about to apply to one of the best schools in the city. How could I not be proud? I'd be a terrible friend if I wasn't."

Santana knows a little something about pride. She used to have way too much of it, that's for sure. It's never a good idea to have too much of anything, especially when it's too much of the wrong kind of pride. Santana has a different kind of pride now, and Rachel's the person she has to thank for showing her how important it is to have pride in yourself. To believe in yourself. 

"Fine," Santana drawls, pushing down the urge to smile "Then let's be proud of each other, because you're doing awesome shit at NYADA and together we're going to fuck things up real good."

Rachel laughs as she leans her head against Santana's shoulder. "We'll takeover this city yet."

\--

So, basically she’s fucked, and it really takes no genius to figure out what she does next. Quinn's not calling her, and it's been another three days, and Santana's never been known for her patience. She's tired of looking at her phone, waiting for Quinn's stupid face to pop up on the caller ID, so Santana does what she promised she'd never do in a zillion years.

She makes the first move.

It’s stupid and dumb and she once promised herself she’d never make the first fucking move, gay or straight, but here she is anyway, picking up her phone to dial Quinn’s number. 

She's at work, about to take her lunch break, and Rachel hasn't shown up after her noon class yet, so Santana figures now more than ever is the perfect time (although there will probably never be a perfect time to call your one night stand and talk to them about what the fuck happened that night). 

She steps out through the front entrance and smiles at a regular—this wavy-haired guy named Dennis who reminds her way too much of Mr. Schue—and then leans up against a cool, brick wall before dialing that familiar number. Her thumb is on auto-pilot as it slides across the touch screen. 

“Hello?” 

A breathy voice answers on the third ring, and Santana's immediately brought back to that night. 

It was the most nervous she'd been in a long time, but Quinn had had this look in her eyes that Santana had never seen before, and more than anything she needed to find out what it meant. Quinn was the one who'd gotten the key and led Santana upstairs, while Santana inwardly panicked, unsure of whether this was really happening or not. 

She can still recall every hungry gaze and lip bite and lingering touch. She remembers the way Quinn flirted with her, complimenting her dress and asking her to dance and eyeing her chest as if she wasn't standing right there. It was all deliberate, Santana knows, but the real question is _why_.

It's freezing out here without a coat, and she contemplates hanging up to run back inside and pretend like none of this ever happened. But Santana's tired of running. She's not going to be a coward anymore. 

Her eyes dart sideways as she breathes out a ragged, “Hey, Q."

There's an airy chuckle through the line, but Santana can barely hear it when a symphony of taxi horns start blasting as a biker cuts right through the intersection. Santana watches the chaos ensue, though she's not really seeing anything, too distracted by Quinn saying, “I expected this call to take awhile, but surely not two whole weeks, Santana."

Quinn's response makes Santana frown in confusion. “What?”

There's a lot of noise in Quinn's background too; people laughing and singing (not very well either), the sound of a television humming, and what might be a Madonna song playing, but then a door slams, and there's complete silence other than Quinn speaking again. “You really thought I was going to call you first after you left _me_ alone in that hotel room?”

Suddenly trampled by incertitude, Santana moves her lips wordlessly, stumped on what to say next. Her upper lip twitches. She could really go for a smoke right about now. Her fingers itch for something warm to hold in her hand. “Quinn, I...I'm—" 

“Don’t apologize, San. I understand," Quinn cuts her off, sounding tired, and Santana pauses, unsure of whether to smile or frown.

She coughs into her fist instead. "I, um..." she mutters, puzzled, because who said she was about to apologize? She probably should, because leaving Quinn alone in that hotel room was really shitty, but she was feeling so claustrophobic and panicky that she just had to escape. Crying and sobbing into Rachel's shoulder was only a side effect of how overwhelmed she'd been. “What is it you understand, exactly?” Santana asks slowly.

“What this was," Quinn clarifies, and she says it as if Santana has a fucking clue what she's talking about, which, nope, Santana has no idea. It's the reason she's calling—to find out why this happened and whether it was a mistake or not. Santana's about to ask for more clarification, but Quinn shuts her up when she says, "I had a really great time, S. We should…I don't know, do it again.”

Santana presses the phone closer to her ear. Quinn had a great time? She wants to do _it_ again? Santana bites so hard into her bottom lip that she tastes blood. The contrast of cold air against her hot cheeks cools the burning blush heating up her neck. "You’d...want that?” she asks, scratching at the tip of her eyebrow. 

“I mean, well..." Quinn tries for nonchalance, but Santana can easily hear the shakiness in her voice when she says, "Sleeping with you wasn’t exactly horrible or anything, so you know, why not?"

“Fuck you," Santana mumbles, embarrassed, because she doesn't know what else to say. "Of course it wasn’t horrible. I’m a fucking goddess in bed.”

If there's ever been anyone to see straight through all of her vibrato, it's Quinn Fabray. Quinn hums, obviously not convinced nor moved by Santana's act of levity. “Yes, Santana. That you are." There's a ring to Quinn's voice that suggests sarcasm, but Santana's heard the tone a million times in high school, so it's not too hard to ignore. "Look, S," she says, her voice lower, gentler this time, and Santana's lips twist at the sudden seriousness in her friend's tone. "I have some very skittish memories when it comes to sex, but with you—let’s just say it didn’t scar me for life, so if I can have more experiences like that...well, I wouldn’t pass it up, okay?"

Santana shuffles her feet against the pavement. That was...a big confession. Especially for someone like Quinn, who likes talking about feelings just as much as a brick wall. Santana knows that, which is why she stays quiet over the line for a good thirty seconds, only breathing in and out as she tries her best to block out the rest of the city. 

Quinn doesn't need her sympathy right now. She also doesn't need Santana to stroke her ego by telling Quinn that the sex was good for her too, because Quinn already knows that. What she needs is a friend, and as everyone knows, Santana's awesome at offering up friendship in disguise of what she really wants. 

\--

Santana's stuck at a certain point in her screenwriting, and she doesn't care what Henry says; writer's block fucking does exist.

It's frustrating, to say the least, staring at a blank page as the black line in the top left corner blinks mockingly at her, basically telling her she's a loser with no creativity or interesting ideas or purpose in this world, and she knows it's extreme, but that's where her mind goes when she feels uninspired, and then she starts to doubt herself, because if she's really considering a career in this field, she’s going to have to come up with some kind of plan to withhold from getting depressed every time she lands in a writer's funk.  

Rachel walks past on her way to the kitchen and must notice Santana's frustration, because she pauses beside the couch and looks at her for a long time. Santana doesn’t look away from her screen, because then she’d lose her entire train of thought. As if she’s not distracted enough, but Rachel’s wearing her Cheerio running shorts, which just barely cover her ass cheeks, and it’s totally not Rachel’s fault, because Santana told her she could have them, though she had no idea how good they’d look on Rachel when she originally gave them up. 

She gets caught staring sometimes, which really shouldn’t happen, because she’s _Rachel_ , and the last thing Santana needs on top of her lack of inspiration is shame. The second to last thing Santana wants is for Rachel to think she likes her just because she’s been caught perving. This friendship between them; it’s different than most. Not only are they living together, but Santana being gay has never been an issue, and she doesn’t want to make it one by forgetting to keep her eyes above the neckline. 

Rachel plops down next to Santana and ask what's wrong, and after a weary sigh, Santana explains the problem. They can do this thing now, where they talk to each other without making it into an argument about fuck all knows. Rachel giving advice used to sound condescending, but it’s just a know-it-all tone that Santana’s gotten used to and kind of admires, because Rachel can easily get her point across without sounding snide, dishing out insults, or using every curse word that fits within the context of the discussion.

“Draw from experience,” Rachel advises, glancing up with a smile. “It's what I do whenever I act. When I'm lacking passion or inspiration, all I do is recall events in my life that made me _really_ feel, and then I feed off of that.”

It’s truly uncanny how good Rachel’s advice can be on any given day, because it’s like, just those words have new life breathing into Santana’s lungs. She nods at Rachel’s words, lips twisted into a thoughtful frown as she begins to type, her fingers gracefully flowing across the keyboard.

By the time she glances up again, Rachel is gone, and Santana realizes she’s been lost in her world of words for at least four hours.

The apartment is basically mute, so Santana quickly saves her work and then calls out, “Rach?”

After a moment, a head peeks out from behind a blue curtain. Rachel’s hair is a mess and her eyes are all squinted drowsily, and Santana feels a little bad about waking her up from out of her nap, but she just had to say this. “Thanks, babe.”

Santana doesn’t have to explain. Rachel knows what she’s referring to. “You’re welcome, _hon_.”

\--

Santana doesn’t feel like one of those losers anymore, because Quinn texts first the next time they talk. She waits about ten minutes before responding. It’s probably ridiculous, but she doesn’t want to seem too eager. 

Rachel asks who she’s texting, and Santana tries not to smile, but it happens anyway. “My mom,” she answers, tucking the phone back into her pocket and only feeling a little bit bad about lying, because she and Quinn are just starting to get close again—flirty-friend wise close, not sexy close, because Quinn is busy in New Haven while Santana's busting her ass trying to figure out the NYU application process before the due date—and she doesn't want to jinx it by telling Rachel about it, of all people. 

She still has some time before she has to start getting down to business in terms of college, but having Quinn's help is definitely a plus. Quinn gives Santana a lot of good advice about what the admissions people are looking for in an applicant, what they're looking for in a person, and what they're looking for in a student—because apparently they are three different things—and Santana's glad she has Quinn backing her up in all of this. 

(Of course she has her mother's good word and her father's money, but that won't get her everywhere in life, and Santana's just now starting to realize that she's going to have to start making it on her own.

Kurt and Rachel have done it—pretty damn seamlessly so far—and Quinn is practically Miss Yale over in New Haven if her bragging has any truth to it, so now it's Santana's turn to make her mark, but she can't do it on her own. At least not yet.)

The application process is a daunting task, so Quinn sets up Skype sessions where they can go over everything Santana needs to know from recommendations to cover letters to sending in her SAT scores on time. 

When she was applying to Louisville, Santana didn't have to worry about any of this shit. Coach Sylvester's people—whoever the fuck they are—handled everything from her resume to her college essay. It was easy—since she didn't have to do much except show up on time to take her SATs and ACTs—and Santana definitely didn't know how lucky she was to have high priority in that high school because of the Cheerios. 

There's no high priority in New York unless you're the mayor, or like, Sarah Jessica Parker, so Santana already knows she's going to have to work her ass off if she's ever going to make a name for herself in this town. 

Quinn was surprised when Santana told her about her desire to study EMF as a major, probably thinking Santana would much rather be _in front_ of the camera. "I wouldn't say it's shocking, but it's definitely different, seeing as how fame was your mistress in high school," Quinn had teased, and Santana had laughed dryly at that comment, but then Quinn eventually said it made sense, just like Rachel had told her in Lima. 

Santana's always been into movies and TV shows and how they're made and what goes into making them. It didn't just come out if nowhere—like Quinn's crazy senior year makeover—and that's exactly what she had told her mom over the phone before heading to the airport.

It was an annoyingly energy-draining conversation, but Santana's mother had cried and said something about only wanting the best for her, so they made a deal and came up with a compromise. Santana can study EMF as long as she picks up business administration as a minor, which, whatever, it'll probably be instrumental in her quest to takeover the city, so Santana's not complaining.

\--

It's nice being on Rachel's good side. Santana may never know why the girl's mood is always so rollercoast-y, but she's not going to spend too much time dwelling on it. 

Girls are just weird sometimes. 

Their normal routine continues without a hitch. Rachel comes into the bathroom to pluck her eyebrows while Santana's in the shower; they stop by this awesome bagel place on the way to Cobblestones, because Cobblestones' food is shit; Rachel acts like a brat until Santana sneaks her a free coffee; then they hug goodbye before Rachel leaves for dance class.

If they look like a couple to any outsiders, that's just them reading the situation incredibly wrong. 

Work is annoying and kind of lonely, especially because her co-workers are all idiots who're going nowhere in life, and her boss is an anti-feministic pig. 

When Santana's supposed to be doing inventory, she checks her messages and texts Quinn about how stupid this job is and how she totally would've quit by now if she didn't get a good caffeine fix out of it. 

Quinn texts back, _you'll beat the system yet. ever think about pre-law? not too late to restart that app_

Santana smirks at the message before sending out, _arguing my point is fun, but it'll get tiring after awhile. just look at you and i ;)_

They go back and forth like this for awhile until her boss catches her lollygagging and makes her takeover the register to keep a close eye on her, the perv.

It's about an hour before her shift is over when Rachel shows up, and thank God, because her co-worker, Pat, is talking her fucking ear off, and she was literally two seconds away from punching him in the face. Rachel comes to the counter with this tired smile and starts talking about her day, and Santana totally stops everything she's doing to listen. 

They're both exhausted and stinky from a long day in the city, but Santana missed Rachel, and it'd be stupid if Rachel didn't feel the same way, so Santana listens patiently, adding in her two cents every now and then until it's her turn to whine and complain. 

Santana's on the part of her story where she's telling Rachel about this damn fly that her boss tried to make her catch when her phone beeps and vibrates against the counter. It's only an anxious reflex when she quickly reaches for it and turns the phone over. 

Rachel looks at her strangely, and Santana feels like she just swallowed a bug, but surprisingly no questions are asked, and before Santana knows it, her shift is over and she's taking off her dumb apron and then they're walking home together, eating a TV dinner on the couch, catching up with Breaking Bad, and falling asleep strewn all over each other until Kurt comes home and makes them go to bed.

It's a good day.


	2. put up with me then i'll make you see

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is way longer than i originally anticipated, but oh well...;)

She’s itching for a cigarette, but she withholds from going down to the corner store because—as Rachel's told her too many times before—smoking is bad for her lungs and it causes cancer and a shitload of other diseases she'd rather not have to deal with in the future. 

Ever since watching this documentary on lung cancer, Santana's been trying to quit, so she munches on a toothpick instead in order to distract herself from the desire to light a cigarette and taste the staleness of nicotine on her tongue.

The smell of winter rain tickles Santana's nostrils as she sits on the porch in the bitter cold. Rachel tried to cook earlier, so now the apartment stinks. It was a good excuse to escape their stuffy apartment, and Santana took it. She needed the time to air out her thoughts.

Things are going good now, with mostly everyone in her life, which is not a usual occurrence. Quinn's been in constant contact. They talk or text almost everyday now. Rachel's recent dramatics have settled since their last heart to heart, so they're on really good terms. Basically, she's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

There’s an umbrella over her head, because it's drizzling. She hates this kind of rain, because it's misty and sprays her out of nowhere depending on which way the wind blows, but she’s off from work today and had nowhere else to go. 

"You're gonna catch a cold."

Santana glances down at the sound of that voice, and she smirks when she sees who it is. "I don't get sick," she says, waving him off with her toothpick. 

Henry climbs the steps to the porch in two quick leaps. "Everyone gets sick. Even Santana Lopez," he jests, crouching down underneath her umbrella. He throws an arm around her shoulder to bring her closer, as if she needs warming up or something. Santana's perfectly fine, but she doesn't shrug him off. "Your birthday's coming up," Henry reminds her. "You don't want to be sick on your birthday, do you?"

That's not even a valid question, because she never gets sick. "Colds are for the weak and crippled."

Henry laughs and ignores her. "What do you wanna do anyway?"

Santana shrugs because she doesn't really care. She almost forgot it was even coming up. She'll be turning nineteen this year, which Santana doesn't really think is much of a big deal. S'not like she'll be able to drink legally any time soon, so what's the fucking point?  

She can feel a pair of concerned eyes on her, but she refuses to look Henry's way, even as he says, "You've been acting kind of weird lately, which for you is like, _super_ weird."

Santana cracks a smile and it quirks her lips up for a moment until she remembers why she's sitting out here in the fucking cold in the first place. "I can deal with weird," she says, sighing. "What I can't deal with is all this confusion."

"I thought you dealt with that problem back in high school.”

Santana elbows him in the side. "Not that," she huffs out a laugh, but it squeezes her chest tight against the cold. She _tries_ to blame it on the cold, at least, hoping it's not about something deeper.

"Then what's puzzling you, hon?" Henry asks.

Santana scratches at her elbow through her jacket and frowns. "This girl."

"A _girl_?" Henry feigns shocked and then smiles cheekily. “Wow. That confession was very much anti-climactic."

"Shut up." Santana pulls the umbrella away from him so that the rain is pouring over his head, because he doesn't deserve an umbrella if he's going to act like such an ass. Henry squeaks in surprise and tries to huddle in next to her, but Santana just places her hand against his face to push him away. 

"Ow." Henry puts a hand to his cheek. "Santana, you—that actually hurt!"

Santana rolls her eyes. She didn't even hit him that hard. "Here I am trying to be serious for once and you're teasing me," she says, scoffing when Henry pushes her back and then steals her umbrella away.

"Ha. I win."

Fast raindrops fall into Santana's hair and drip down her cheek. She sighs and wipes at her face, trying her best to hold back the smile curving at her lips at the sight of Henry's hair sticking to his forehead. "Not really. Now we're both fucking wet."

Laughing, Henry pulls a face. "Speak for yourself. Girls don't get me wet," he says, and then coughs when Santana punches him in the stomach. It's not too hard of a hit, but Henry's a pansy, so. He stares at her for a moment, contemplating whether he should fight back, but eventually his shoulders sag in defeat. "Sorry, sorry. Go ahead. I'm listening."

Santana steals the umbrella back, but when Henry tries to huddle in next to her, she doesn't push him away this time. He looks like a drowned rat anyway, and Kurt would go ballistic if his boyfriend caught a cold and it was her fault. 

Santana sighs and leans her shoulder against Henry's. He's no longer as warm as he was two minutes ago, but oh well. She likes the comfort of his touch. "So, this girl. She's...a really close friend that I've known since high school, and it's a little awkward talking about it with anybody else I know, so that's why I'm telling you."

Henry gets this look on his face. He inhales tightly, chest puffing up a bit, and averts his eyes to the damp stone with a strained expression. "Okay, so, this girl...do you know if she likes you back?"

Santana snorts and then rolls her eyes, because hell if she knows. Quinn has this way of leading people on—Santana's seen her do it a thousand times to the guys they knew in high school—and most of the time, Quinn’s doing it all on purpose, so no, Santana has no idea what Quinn's game is this time. 

"Even if she did like me, she'd never say it point blank," Santana reasons, leaning back against the damp railing. "I think I want to take this chance, but I can't ruin another friendship, and it would suck for everyone if this didn't work out."

Henry looks to be deep in thought as he strokes at his hairless chin. Green eyes go unfocused for a moment until a tiny, barely noticeable grin quirks at his upper lip. "Being gay, I know better than anyone how much the friendzone sucks, and the only way out of it is to just be brave and risk it," he says, shrugging a shoulder, like it’s just that fucking easy to bear her soul to a girl Santana used to swear didn’t have one. "There's no better time than the present, so I think you should tell this girl how you feel, Santana. I mean, who knows, maybe she feels the same way."

Santana resists the urge to roll her eyes. Knowing Quinn Fabray, that is a very _massive_ maybe. 

\--

Working at Cobblestones is kind of ridiculous sometimes. It's just a block away from NYADA, so those diva students are always bringing their stupid theatre drama down to her workplace. 

It's annoying as fuck, especially Frick and Frack, who come around almost as much as Rachel. They obviously think they're all friends now just because Santana made out with Angela about five times and felt up her boob, and because they're technically mutual friends through Rachel, or whatever.

She doesn't mind them, not really, but then every time they come around, Daniel gives her the stink eye, like she's done something to personally offend him. And okay, maybe she did, but it's not like she remembers, so the dude really needs to just back off. 

And Angela? Jeez, can that girl talk. Motormouth asks a waterfall of random ass questions whenever she comes in to order a muffin. Stupid questions, too, about Santana’s favorite eye color—blue, green, or brown?—or whether she'd ever date anyone shorter than her, or in what way would she exhibit feelings for a girl she liked. 

See, stupid questions that aren't even worth her time. 

Santana only answers, albeit reluctantly, because the whole fucking morning rush has formed a line that rolls out the door and curves around the whole damn building. 

Eye color? Blue eyes, of course. Height? Preferably someone taller than her. Expression of affection? Whenever Santana wants to have sex with someone, she lets them know. Like, she doesn't hold back, and if she gets a vibe that a girl likes her, she's in her pants before you can say zipper. 

Angela never exactly seems happy with any of Santana’s answers, but whatever. It's probably some stupid lesbian survey she's doing for that gay school of hers anyway, and Santana doesn't mind being a statistic when it comes to good sex. 

So, win-win.

\--

"Daniel asked me out," Rachel says when they're in the bathroom. Rachel's in the shower as Santana brushes her teeth, and she really wasn't about to spit, but it happens anyway. She almost misses the sink.

"Again?" This has to be about the fifth fucking time, and Santana honestly can't comprehend how Rachel hasn't blown her shit by now. Santana taps the end of her toothbrush against the sink before popping it back into her mouth. "God, can that kid not take a fucking hint or something?"

There's a sigh from behind the shower curtain. "I don't know," Rachel says, her voice a little unsteady. "I...I think I'm actually considering saying yes this time."

Santana stops brushing to stare at herself in the mirror, because why? _Why_ would Rachel do that to herself? Daniel is practically Finn, only shorter and with a better body. Sure, the kid can dance, and he has a future ahead of him, and okay, maybe he's not Finn, exactly, but Daniel is such a tool, and Rachel needs someone who can challenge her. What Daniel has is a schoolyard crush that will go away once he gets what he wants, and that, folks, is Finn Hudson in a fucking nutshell.

"Santana?"

She swishes and spits. "I don't think that's a good idea, Rach."

"Wha—why not?"

"Because," Santana trails off, biting down on her lower lip. She lets out a huff of annoyance, because she could totally repeat everything she was just thinking, but it would no doubt come off as condescending and probably a bit hypocritical considering the women she's been with since arriving in New York.

So, whatever, there's no denying most of the girls she's slept with hold a minor and/or slightly close resemblance to her ex, and for Santana to use Finn as a reason why Rachel shouldn't date Daniel would sound fucking stupid, so she doesn't say that.

Instead, she goes, "I thought you didn't like him. I mean, I know I'm no saint, and I've definitely did my fair share of teasing in the past, but that poor guy doesn't deserve to get led on."

It's a weak excuse, and Rachel seems to know it by the silence that follows. At least five seconds pass before Rachel speaks up, saying, "Well, maybe I'm not leading him on this time. Maybe I'm serious."

Serious, shmerious. Santana rolls her eyes, because that's really dumb. How naïve does Rachel think she is? "You can't be serious about somebody so dull."

"Then explain Cole," Rachel shoots back, her voice a bit louder now over the running water.

"Easily," Santana says, glancing sideways at Rachel's silhouette through the curtain. "I'm not serious about her."

Rachel peeks her head out and raises a brow. "Then who are you serious about, Santana? _What_ are you serious about? Are you serious about anything?" she fires off, and Santana has to bite down hard on her toothbrush to refrain from growling, because Rachel really has some nerve.

Santana _has_ a plan, and even if she didn't, she would still move at her own fucking pace, no matter how fucking slow, thank you very much.

They're usually so in tune with each other's emotions, but Rachel doesn't seem to get how annoyed Santana is as she continues talking, "So far, all you've been doing is floating around, and I know you said you were planning to enroll at NYU, but I honestly haven't seen you do—"

"Quinn's been helping me."

She really didn't mean to let that one slip, but it's out there now. “Excuse me?" Rachel practically squeaks, and then the water in the shower stops, and fuck, Santana really did it now.

"Quinn. She's been helping me with my application," Santana repeats, but Rachel just stares at her blankly as water drips down her neck and onto the bathroom mat. Santana snaps her eyes away and back to her reflection when she realizes she's been staring. "I mean, it makes sense though, right? She's at Yale, so obviously she did something right in tricking the admissions people into letting her in."

Now that Rachel's turned off the shower head, it's even quieter than it was before, and it makes Santana feel a little uncomfortable as she continues to scrub at her teeth.

"You're...getting help from Quinn," Rachel says, voice monotonous and kind of empty-sounding. Santana hates it when all the fucking life drains out of Rachel, because then she starts to feel like shit, and she doesn't deserve to feel like shit, because she honestly didn't even do anything wrong.

Santana spits again and then averts her eyes down to the sink when Rachel steps out of the shower to hastily dry herself with a towel that's hanging on the far wall. "Rachel, c'mon, don't be like that."

"Don't be like what?"

When Rachel gets like this—all pouty and silent and tear-brimmed—it really fucking sucks. They've been spending so much time together that their moods have sort of linked up. Whenever Rachel's sad, Santana feels like complete shit, whether she caused the sour mood or not. 

"Don't be all insulted I didn't ask you for help, okay?"

"I'm not. Absolutely not," Rachel says, tucking the towel under her armpits, and Santana rolls her eyes up to the ceiling, because bullshit. Rachel busies herself with drying her hair before meeting Santana's gaze through the mirror. Brown eyes soften for a spell before they harden in contempt all over again. "But honestly, Santana, it's not like I'm not _right_ here, living in the same city as you, not to mention the same apartment."

Santana huffs, because here it comes. "Rach—"

"And I didn't only apply to just NYADA, you know."

"I know."

"I also got into Penn State, Boston University, and Syracuse," Rachel rants on, and Santana mouths along with her, rolling her eyes at her reflection in the mirror, because she _knows_. Rachel always says this shit.

Some people don't respect theatre arts majors, but Santana isn't like that. Rachel is ridiculously smart—the girl memorized half the fucking dictionary by the time she was like seven, and she was always on the honor roll in high school—so it's not like Santana thinks Rachel is incompetent or anything, which her verbose roommate continues to reiterate from behind her.

"I am perfectly capable of helping you fill out a college application that doesn't involve admission into the arts," Rachel huffs, and okay, Santana already knew that, so she waits a moment, only to see if Rachel's done, because if she gets cut off one more time she's going to just bail, and if she does that, Rachel will get mad, and an argument like this could definitely span out to last a lifetime between the two of them.

Thankfully, Rachel doesn't open her big mouth again as she turns back around to grab the lotion from off the top shelf. It's so high she has to lean up on her toes to reach, and damn, Rachel has some really nice calves. They flex and glisten against the dull lighting in the bathroom, and Santana tries not too drool as she snaps her attention back to doing whatever the fuck she was about to do. 

"Rachel, I know, and for that you're super," she says, forgetting what it even was Rachel just said. Whatever. Flattery can get you very far in life.

Santana reaches into the medicine cabinet for this awesome face cream Rachel and Kurt have been using since high school. The stuff does wonders for her complexion. She actually fucking glows now, and it finally makes sense why Rachel's skin was always so fucking flawless. Santana doubts she's ever even seen a zit or pimple on the girl.

"Then why Quinn and not me?" Rachel asks, and oh fuck, are they really still on this?

Santana allows her eyes to close as she rubs the green and gritty cream across her cheeks and forehead. "Ever since the wedding, Quinn and I have been..." Now, she doesn't want to be too honest, because ew, she'd never share those types of details with Rachel, especially not about Quinn of all people. There's no doubt Rachel still holds some animosity towards the ex-captain of the Cheerios, and Santana doesn't want to make the girl sick or anything, so she shrugs a shoulder and refuses to open her eyes as she says, "I don't know, I guess we've been...reconnecting, and she offered, so you know, whatever." 

Santana winces. That sounded so much better in her head. Rachel doesn't say anything for a long time, and Santana holds her breath as she continues to lather her face in cream.

There's some shuffling behind her, which is probably just Rachel moisturizing those orgasmic legs of hers, but other than that, it's complete and utter silence.

The next thing Santana hears is the door opening and then slamming, and shit. She opens her eyes and Rachel's gone. Also, there's a splinter in the door, but Santana ignores it in favor of washing this green gook from off her face before it dries up and gets too hard.

\--

She takes Henry up on his advice. The guy is kind of smart when it comes to relationships—like, he's a fucking Casanova, the dude—so what's the harm, right? She's not going to go as far as telling Quinn how she feels, because hell no, she doesn't roll like that, but what can a little honesty hurt? 

(It's not like she can't take being vulnerable, because it's nothing like that. It's just, she's never really been that open about her feelings with anyone except Brittany—Rachel, too, sometimes, when she's feeling up to it—and look how well that turned out.)

There's a difference between vulnerability and openness, so Santana swallows her pride and says WWHD (what would Henry do?), and then does things she would've never done in the past, like call Quinn to invite her down to New York—for a concert to see some underground indie band she would appreciate, or maybe to take her to one of those stupid poetry slam things she likes a lot—but Quinn always declines, each and every time Santana extends an olive branch. 

Quinn tells her that she has to study for exams (what a nerd), meet up with her women's studies group (and a dork), and confer with the journalism club about her column in the Yale Times (which, when did Quinn become such a geek?). 

They're only excuses, Santana knows, because Quinn hates talking to other women about women stuff, and if Quinn really wanted to see her, she'd _be here_ , which kind of pisses Santana off a little, but whatever. 

Those things—concerts and poetry slams and weird museums about rubber gloves and soap carvings—are stupid anyway, so she and Rachel make a thing out of waking up early on Sundays to explore the city. They just go anywhere without any kind of destination or map or plans, and it's much more fun than whatever she would've been doing with Quinn anyway. 

And she's not holding onto any kind of stupid repressed feelings or anything, because a relationship with Quinn? That wouldn't work out in a millions years, but the sex was _so good_ , and it's not like Santana would mind having some more of it. 

Sure, she's in New York, but there's only so many people willing to be in an open relationship despite the diversity of the city. These days, you got to be careful anyway, what with all the people carrying around STIs and giving them out as if it's free candy on Halloween.

Quinn calls what they did together _exploration_ , and Santana wonders how that's any different than experimentation. Turns out it's not. Santana knows what each word means, of course, but she looks them up in the dictionary anyway, and it's kind of crazy how exploration might even be a better word for what the two of them did that night at Schue's wedding. 

Santana calls Quinn up a few days later when there's no one else home—Rachel's out with Gwen and Angela doing hell knows what, and Kurt is with Henry, shopping for new furniture to help brighten up Henry's gloomy apartment.

Quinn answers on the fourth ring, which is kind of annoying, but whatever. 

Santana's not really sure why she's calling Quinn in the first place, but Quinn has always had this way of pulling her in. It's been this way since high school, actually, but Santana never really knew what it was until recently. 

It's only been two days since they've last spoken, but she’s missed hearing Quinn's voice, which is definitely weird, so she doesn't tell Quinn that when she first picks up the phone, but instead tells her, "Exploration means the action of traveling in or through an unfamiliar area in order to learn about it.”

Quinn laughs and says, "That definition is scarily accurate when it comes to exploring the female anatomy."

"Female anatomy?" Santana kind of loves how technical she's being, but, "Stop being such a prude, Q. Just call it pussy."

Quinn grumbles. "I hate that word."

Smirking, Santana falls back against her bed with a sigh. "Gonna have to learn to say it sooner or later if you're going to continue eating from it."

“Is that so?” 

She sounds amused, so Santana shrugs, trying not to blush. “Yeah. It’s so.”

"Mhmm. And who said I was going to continue eating from your," Quinn stalls for a moment," ... _pussy_?"

Santana wants to laugh, but she grins widely instead and traces her fingertip over the stitching of her comforter. "Oh, Q, don't pretend you didn't like it," she drawls, resting an arm under her head. "If you hadn't, you wouldn't have come back for seconds."

Quinn breathes unsteadily through the line. "Well, I mean, you offered, and it would have been rude of me to decline."

So, this is how she's going to play it. Cheeky. Coy. Santana smirks, upper lip twitching naughtily as she tries to imagine where Quinn is, what she's doing. "So, that's your story?"

"That's my story, and I'm sticking to it." Quinn huffs out a laugh at the sound of Santana's annoyed groan. 

She wants to hear more. She wants to know why Quinn really gave into her that night. She wants to know what changed between them in that one instant, because Santana knows, more than anything, that it wasn't just the alcohol. They were barely even drunk, and Santana would've never taken advantage of Quinn in that state anyway; not after everything that happened with Puck.

There's some shuffling on the other line, and Santana stares up at the ceiling, waiting for Quinn to speak. She finally does, after another five seconds, saying, "You don't know this, S, but you can be very persuasive when you're awarded the right incentive."

Santana's lips twists into a small smile. She'll take that as a compliment. "Sex is the best incentive."

"Sex with me in addition to others," Quinn drawls searchingly, “…or sex with me in particular?"

Santana's eyebrows rise. There's something Quinn's trying to get at here, and Santana swallows at the sly undertone in her friend's voice. This feels big; very, _very_ big, but Santana's never been good at handling the big, important things like this. Things like Quinn Fabray. Things like expressing her feelings and actually being honest with people. 

Quinn has always been unnaturally astute at asking questions without really asking questions, so Santana waits a moment, incredibly still, as she tries to figure out what question Quinn could be asking this time.

Whatever. Fuck it. "You," Santana says, hoping her voice doesn't sound as unsteady as it feels coming up her throat. “Just you.”

There's three seconds of uncomfortable silence, and Santana closes her eyes tightly, holding her breath, because this is the first time she's been this honest with a girl about sex since Brittany.

"Interesting," Quinn says, eventually.

Well, if that's not the least telling thing Santana's ever heard. Talk about anti-climactic. "Interesting?" She just practically told one of her best friends that sex with her was different than the sex she's had with other women, and all she gets is a banal _interesting_?

It's fucking frustrating, especially when it comes to Quinn and her flight instincts, always retracting after mistakenly putting herself out there. Santana gets it, of course. That used to be her first reaction to uncomfortable situations too, but she’s not going to let Quinn get away with it this time. They had sex. They _liked_ the sex. They’re both in this together no matter what Quinn thinks, until Santana hears a distant bumping noise through the line. 

"What was that?" she asks warily.

There’s more shuffling in the background, and then Quinn sighs. "Just the door. My date must be here."

A lump forms in Santana's chest, but she tries not to jump to any conclusions. “Like, those sweet, dark brown fruits?" she wonders, only half-kidding.

"No, Santana." Quinn's voice is oddly gentle, and it makes Santana roll her eyes, because she doesn't need people to coddle her. She can handle the truth, or so she thinks, until Quinn says, "Not a brown fruit, S. A date, as in someone to take me out."

"Since when did you start dating?" 

It's a dumb question, because she doesn't even want to know the answer, but Quinn gives it to her anyway. "I wouldn't exactly call what I'm doing dating."

Something clenches in her stomach at the implication. She shouldn't be mad over something like this, because she's been doing the very same thing. She's still sleeping with Cole, so being jealous over this is like the most hypocritical thing ever. 

But she is jealous. Quinn isn't like most girls. She doesn't just trust anyone. It's stupid, but Santana thought she was like, special or something. But has Quinn been doing this the entire time? Giving herself away to people who don't even deserve her?

Santana won't try to fool herself into thinking she has any more right to claim Quinn as her own than anyone else, but this is different. It's so much more different, which is why Santana suddenly feels so crushingly defeated as she sits up in bed.  

"Oh, my mistake," she drawls nastily. "So, you're just whoring yourself out again, like you did with me." 

It's a low blow, and Quinn doesn't back down from the challenge. She never has, and Santana doesn't expect anything less than an equally brutal comeback. "Santana," she says, her voice flat and unwavering. "No offense, but you are the last person who should be criticizing me about my sex life considering..."

She trails off, and Santana raises a brow, waiting. "Considering?"

"Considering all the sluts you've probably fucked since Brittany broke up with you." Those words, those expletives, were not what Santana was expecting at all. There's a whoosh of a sigh as Quinn sucks in a breath of air. She's trying to calm down. "Don't act like you're better than me, Santana, because you're not. We're both lonely and pathetic, so get the hell over it."

Santana scoffs. "I'll get over it as soon as you’re done exploring, Dora."

"My date is waiting for me," Quinn says, and then hangs up.

Santana throws her phone out the curtain and then apologizes when she hears Kurt wince in pain. 

\--

She’s still mad—hotly steaming, really—when Rachel comes home; she asks what's wrong, but Santana just says she's hungry (and Rachel knows how grumpy she gets when she's hungry), so they order takeout—Rachel calls and surprises Santana with her favorite (because she knows that too)—and then they cuddle up on the couch after dinner, because it's cold and Santana knows Rachel likes it best when she can lay her head on Santana's shoulder as they watch Animal Planet. 

There's a rhino drinking from a watering hole in the savannah when Rachel apologizes for being so annoying the other day, and Santana forgives her, of course, because honestly, who can stay mad at that mug? Rachel does this thing with her face that's fucking annoying, where she pokes out her bottom lip and just stares up at Santana whenever she knows she did something wrong, and fuck, Santana can't resist that look.

"So, how's your essay coming along?" Rachel asks, when the commercial comes on.  

Santana sighs and pulls the cover up to her chin. "It's going nowhere," she mumbles, especially now that she and Quinn are fighting or whatever. 

She's definitely not going to be the first to call back, and it would surprise the shit out of her if Quinn called first. It'll be a few days before she hears anything, and she really needs another pair of eyes to revise and edit her essay, so, "Would you mind looking it over for me? It's about unconventional families and how they're changing society for the better, and since your dads are gay and shit, it'll be really cool if I could get some input from you."

There's this look Rachel gets in her eyes sometimes that's all glistening and bright, and she's doing it right now. That look makes Santana nervous, so she turns her attention back to the television. 

The commercial ends, but the program they were watching is totally forgotten as Rachel takes out her iPad and starts planning the main points and thesis statement, and Santana needs to start appreciating her roommate more, because Quinn would never do any of this for her. 

\--

Since Rachel doesn't understand what it means to give up, she attempts cooking for everyone again, but something on the stove ends up on fire, and Kurt bans her from the kitchen, once and for all. Santana laughs her ass off and hugs Rachel for making her smile, because she's been feeling pretty down lately, and Rachel hugs back just as tightly, and then tells Santana to get back to revising that essay. 

Santana tries to, but the burning smell in the apartment stinks, so she packs up her stuff for a coffee shop that's _not_ Cobblestones, and then Rachel decides to tag along, because apparently Kurt's in the kitchen _showing off_ as he fixes himself a meal that's actually edible. 

The coffeehouse they're heading to is about two blocks further than Cobblestones, but Santana hates going to her workplace when she's not working, so they make the extra trek, and it's not too bad what with the recently warm weather. 

Rachel grabs a New York Journal issue on the way there, because she's a sucker for supporting her friends, and since they’re at the magazine vendor, Santana picks up an issue of _Elle_ and _Cosmo_ for later. _Elle_ , because she likes the fashion, and _Cosmo_ , because there's this juicy story about how a woman fell in love with her lesbian best friend inside. 

If Rachel sees the headline over Santana's shoulder, she doesn't say anything about it. 

Once they get to the coffeehouse and sit down, Santana suddenly remembers a discussion from about a week ago. "So, whatever happened with that Daniel thing? You never told me how the date went."

Without even looking up from her textbook, Rachel shakes her head. "I decided we'd probably make better friends. He's really sweet and the perfect gentlemen, but...it would just never work, especially now at this point in my life."

Santana bends over to plug in her laptop and then hits the side of the screen when it takes forever to boot up. "Good. I'm glad you finally came to your senses. Danny was a bad idea from the start, but I still think you should get back out there," she advises, twirling her pen around, and then looks up at Rachel when an idea strikes her. "What about that Tyler guy who always comes to Callbacks with us?"

Rachel laughs. "He's gay, Santana. He has a boyfriend. You know, Riley," she explains at Santana's confused expression, but that just boggles her even more, because who? "Riley, the one you always say looks like a giant Gerber baby?"

"Oh, duh. Love that kid," Santana says, smiling, because he always has the best jokes. "Anyway, whatever. How about that dude with the, uh...needy eyes?"

"Fredrick?"

It's amazing Rachel even knows who's she's talking about. "Yeah, sure, him."

"He's gay too."

Santana frowns. Her gaydar must be on the fritz or something. "What the fuck is going on? Why is everyone gay all of a sudden?" she asks, because where were all of these people when she was in high school and thought she was the only person attracted to her best friend? 

An elderly woman turns around in her seat to shush her, and Santana rolls her eyes, because she couldn't have been _that_ loud. There's only like five people in here anyway, so whatever. 

"Okay, I got it," Santana says, nudging Rachel's foot under the table. Rachel kicks Santana back, but she's smiling, so she's not mad. Good. "What about Henry's friend? Shit, what's his name? The one with the jet black hair and gauges."

"Winston," Rachel offers, tapping her pencil against the table, "and he's not really my type."

Santana finally finds a boy who's straight, and he's not Rachel's type? "You have to stop being so picky."

"Two out of three of the guys you just mentioned are gay, Santana. I can’t exactly _pick_ from them,” Rachel says, sounding kind of agitated. “And hell, Winston might even be gay for all I know." 

Actually, there may be some truth to that. Henry has a lot of gay friends. _A lot_. Santana smirks. "Well, his name is Winston, so—"

"And I think I deserve the right to be picky. I'm only eighteen,” Rachel huffs, and Santana withholds the urge to raise her hands in mock surrender. "This is the time to pick and choose."

"And to be incredibly anal," Santana adds, picking up her phone when it vibrates against the table. "Speaking of anal, Kurt and Henry aren't gonna be in tonight. Apparently it's Wednesday date night." She rolls her eyes, because how much gayer can those two get before there’s a gay explosion?

"You know, _we_ should establish a date night. Just the two of us," Rachel broaches, hesitantly, but she also looks excited at the idea, as if it's something she’s been thinking about bringing up for a while now.

Santana scoffs. “Like we don't spend enough time together already."

"Agreed, but we do the same thing every day. Same routine, same times, same places," Rachel lists off, browns eyes all big and round. Tilting her head sideways, she licks her lips slowly, and fuck, Santana's done. "Let's do something different."

"Okay," Santana drawls, because whatever. S'not like she has anything better to do. "Like what?"

Rachel's quiet for a moment and then just smirks. "I'll think about it and get back to you."

Oh, this should be good.

\--

There's at least another month and a half left until spring, but there are birds chirping outside Santana's window anyway. S'not like they ever fly south anymore. She and Rachel have been watching a lot of documentaries on the Animal Planet about wildlife and how animals respond to climate change, and apparently since global warming, most of the birds have stopped relocating to warmer locations during the winter. 

While Rachel's hooked on documentaries about ancient cows and animal-ruled civilizations, Santana has taken more of a liking to the Discovery Channel. This is an obsession she would have never admitted to having back in high school, but once you're an adult, it's the more worthless information you know, the better. Santana used to tease Rachel and Kurt about how tiresome their random facts were, but now that she's spent seven months living with them, this odd desire to know more than everyone else has grown on her. 

Cole's another know-it-all with a bunch of random ideas and theories. The girl is a genius despite being a total pothead, and not only when it pertains to the guitar. Cole is like a sponge. She sucks up whatever she sees or hears, especially in regard to literature, music, art, and poetry. Santana's made it a habit of going with Cole whenever she has tickets to VIP museum tours. Quinn would shit her pants if she ever met Cole.

The sun glares into her room through a crack in the shades, and Santana turns over, only to find the right side of her bed empty. The spot is still warm, and there's a very noticeable dip as proof Cole was here not too long ago, so Santana gets out of bed and tugs on some pants.

It's cold, because the stupid radiator has been glitching again, so she pulls on a long sweatshirt over her tank top that could possibly belong to Rachel—it's fucking tiny, so it's definitely not hers—and then some fuzzy socks, just because they're really cute and comfy. 

She heads into the kitchen to find Rachel and Cole talking about feng shui and redecorating the loft. Their voices are low as they talk, heads bent over the kitchen counter. Looks like a swatch book. 

It's kind of fucking weird—watching her best friend and fuck buddy interacting so casually, like they do this every morning, and who knows, maybe they do; it's not like Santana makes a habit out of waking up this early—but she goes along with it anyway, because it's not like it's a big deal or anything. 

Cole can literally get along with anyone. It's Rachel's mood swings Santana's afraid of. She could have sworn Rachel wasn't too fond of Cole, but apparently she was wrong considering the way her roommate is laughing hysterically at whatever Cole just whispered in her ear. 

Santana pops into the conversation, quite seamlessly, and mentions that Kurt would have a fit at the thought of rearranging anything in the loft. Angela once moved a lamp from off the coffee table so she could do her homework in front of the television, and Kurt had almost popped a fucking blood vessel.  

Cole offers to fix a vegan breakfast and then teaches Rachel how to make a simple meal for herself. Santana helps too and they end up putting music on and having a girls thing together. It's nice, doing something light and easy for once, because nothing is ever this simple when Quinn's in the picture, so Santana tries to enjoy this while she can. 

\--

She’s typing up the last of her essay at their usual table when her phone vibrates in her back pocket. She startles at first, before realizing what it is, and then reaches behind her.

Santana smiles at the message; something cheeky about the next time they'll see each other, and then she quickly texts back  _can't wait_ , before re-pocketing her phone. She doesn't even realize she's smiling until Rachel asks who she's texting. 

Lying is getting annoying, so Santana tells her the truth. "It's Quinn." 

"Oh." Rachel's smile is faint. "Well, um...how is she?" 

"She's cool," Santana says, because the best thing to do right now is to offer up vague responses, though Rachel still looks suspicious. 

"Santana, if there's anything you'd like to discuss, you can tell me, because we're best friends so we should be able to talk to each other about anything."

But Santana just peeks up from her laptop and says, “Jeez, Rach, stop being so gay."

She always means it jokingly, but Rachel has a habit if seeing past that. As Rachel glances around the other tables, she purses her lips and then says, "You shouldn't say stuff like that, Santana."

"Like what?"

"Like," Rachel hesitates, and then lowers her voice to say, "Stuff like _that's so gay_."

"But _I'm_ gay. If anyone should be allowed to say it, I'm probably on the top of that list."

Rachel leans back in her chair, arms crossed tightly, and fuck, now this is going to be a thing, isn't it? "But the people around us may not know that and think you're being disrespectful towards homosexuals," Rachel tells her.

Santana sighs, and then rolls her eyes up to the cracked ceiling. "Fine," she says. "Then...stop being so unnecessarily emotional. Better?"

"Not really. While you managed to stop insulting one group of people, you somehow offended me in the process," Rachel says, but she's smiling, so Santana knows that she didn't stick her foot too far down her throat this time.

"I'd never purposefully offend you, boo," Santana says, winking at Rachel from across the table. "I love you too much to hurt you like that."

She's expecting Rachel to roll her eyes or kick her from underneath the table, but instead, all she gets is a kiss blown in her direction, and yes, it's full of sarcasm, but Santana grabs the kiss anyway, and then leaps over the table to press a real kiss to Rachel's cheek. 

And if that's in any way gay, she doesn't give a flying fuck. 

\--

Santana gets off work early, so she texts Rachel, telling her that she's coming to the dance studio to pick her up on her way home. They do this thing, occasionally, so it’s really no big deal.

She gets there, and it's clear Rachel didn't get the text when her eyes light up as Santana creeps into the back of class.

She waves with two fingers and then leans up against a wall as she waits. Her eyes trail over the dancers until they come to a stop at clenching abs. Santana gazes up to find a smirk waiting for her, and she'd look away in embarrassment if she was ashamed, except the woman she was just checking out is Rachel's nutty dance teacher, and Santana wants no part in that, even though she's always had a soft spot for blondes. 

The older woman winks at her, and Santana hopes she's not blushing like a five year old—because she sure feels like a five year old compared to this lady—as she scratches at the back of her neck awkwardly. 

The class ends about five minutes later, and Rachel practically tackles her when she skips over with a big grin. "I didn't know you were coming to pick me up today," she says, with her arms still slung around Santana's neck, but she doesn't really mind, because Rachel doesn't even sweat much, and it's not like she's heavy.

Angela and Gwen saunter over, and then Angela gives Santana a sultry look. "You two have the cutest friendship. I've always wanted someone I could hold on to that wouldn't push me off even if I reeked of studio must," Angela teases, and Rachel lets go of her neck a second later, almost as if she was burnt, and then reaches down to grab her bag. 

"Daniel, you coming, or you staying after class?" Angela yells over her shoulder. 

"Coming," Daniel calls, and then scampers past them with a fleeting look in their direction before disappearing into the hallway. 

“And she thinks _we’re_ an odd pair,” Santana laughs, thumb pointing over her shoulder. “What’s up with them anyway? I mean, besides Daniel being Angela’s fucking caddy.”

Rachel wipes away some sweat with a towel as they make their way out. “I don’t know. I think they’re just really close. Why?”

Santana shrugs, because she doesn’t know either. She just gets a weird vibe from those two. “All I’m saying is don’t be surprised when they start fucking or whatever.”

Rachel pauses on their way down the hallway, and the look on her face is hilarious. “Daniel and _Angela_?”

“Dangela, perfect,” Santana teases, because she can totally see this coming from a mile away. She’s fucking psychic, yet no one ever seems to believe her.

They will one day. She’s always had a sixth sense when it come to these kinds of things. No one can ever say Santana Lopez is clueless. 

But still, Rachel looks pretty skeptical. “You know what, Santana? If Daniel and Angela ever start dating, I’ll streak through Central Park.”

Rachel must either really want to run around naked, or she’s completely insulting Santana’s psychic Mexican third-eye, which, rude. “Rach, I think that’s a swell idea, though if you ever feel the need to walk around the apartment nude, don’t hold back on my account.” 

And of course she means it teasingly, because there’s no way Rachel would ever walk around their place naked—not that Santana’d mind, honestly—but Rachel gets this look on her face that makes Santana want to take it back. She physically forbids herself from blushing because of her faulty filter, and then changes the subject to something about rhinos in the savannah. 

Fuck being a lesbian with a healthy sex drive.

\--

Everyone is hanging out at the loft. Kurt, Henry, and Rachel are inside arguing over dinner as Santana smokes a cigarette.

She has no resolve. The amount of guilt she'll feel tomorrow morning probably won't be worth it, but she ran out of nicotine gum, and when that craving bites her, there's nothing she can do to stop it.

She's out on the fire escape, waiting for a call from Quinn, but she’s not holding her breath, because Quinn's been acting kind of distant lately.

Santana smokes three cigarettes and then drops them into puddles at the bottom of the alley, sighing dejectedly. She wraps her arms around herself when a cool breeze passes, and she shivers and waits and coughs into her elbow and then shivers some more until Henry peeks his head out to tell her that dinner is ready.

She's not really hungry or in the mood to eat. Her stomach feels kind of empty and full at the same time, so she tells him to start without her. 

Henry heads back inside with a look of concern, but Santana brushes it off. She doesn't want his pity. She doesn't need it. She doesn't need anyone. Well, except for Rachel, maybe, because she always has the best advice. Santana needs Rachel more than she needs this fourth cigarette, so she throws it over the railing before it's even finished, and then continues to wait for a call that she knows will probably never come. 

Eventually her phone rings, and Santana startles, but it's only Rachel. Regardless, she smiles with a roll of her eyes and then answers the call.

They banter a bit, mostly about Santana being anti-social, but they also flirt, of course—because Rachel has this logical way of speaking and arguing that seems to suggest she's only kidding, which is _totally_ flirting—but then Rachel finally tells Santana to come in because the food is getting cold. Also, everyone misses her, apparently, and Santana clicks her tongue, because, "I doubt anyone misses me but you."

The giggling that comes through the line warms Santana up some. "You know me too well," Rachel says, and there you have it—flirting! Santana ducks her head to peek inside, and then waves at Rachel who's standing near the kitchen with a hand on her hip. She catches Santana's eye and lifts an eyebrow. "Are you coming in, or should I throw out your steak?"

Santana smirks. "You made me steak?"

"You wish."

"The day you make me steak is the day I marry you."

She watches Rachel roll her eyes through the window, but her roommate's joyous expression doesn't match the tone of her voice when she says, "Guess that's never gonna happen."

Santana winks as she hangs up and then ducks back inside. "Your loss, wifey," she says, rubbing her cold nose against Rachel's cheek only because Santana knows it'll made her squeal.

Giggling hysterically, Rachel pushes her away and then tells her to go get cleaned up for dinner. Weird. It's like Rachel is already Santana's wife by the way she bosses her around, and Santana will never admit it aloud, but she kind of likes it when Rachel's bossy. 

Henry steals Santana's pack of cigarettes when she comes out of the bathroom, and she's grateful for it. He knows how much she's been struggling to quit, and he's also the only person she told about it. She'd tell Rachel, but Santana doesn't want to ever disappoint the girl if she can't do it. For now, it'll be her and Henry's little secret until she gets a handle on her bad habit. 

They eat in front of the TV, watching Breaking Bad, of course, because it's Santana's night to choose. It must be a testament to how much she loves her friends, because when Kurt and Henry start complaining over what they're watching throughout the entire episode, she doesn't kick them out (or in the head).  

Santana knew there was a good reason she picked Rachel as her favorite person. 

\--

Daniel comes by Cobblestones on a Tuesday morning, which is a weird time, because isn't he supposed to be in dance class or something? Whatever. Santana's not in charge of the boy's schedule, so she gets back to work at the register until it's Daniel's turn to order, except he doesn't, instead saying, "Don't you hate it when somebody strings you along, and you have no idea whether they like you or not, so you're left wondering if it's just all in your mind, or if it's...something real?" 

His mouth is moving, but Santana's comprehending not one damn word. She narrows her eyes on him and says, “The fuck?” Daniel readies to repeat his question, but fuck no; Santana is not about to listen to that shit again, so she cuts him off, saying, "Look, Pool Boy, I thought Rachel already told you she's not interested.” 

Daniel frowns, shaking his head. "No, I'm not talking about myself." 

"Well, if you can't tell, I'm kind of damn busy." Santana tightens her apron and then folds her arms over her chest. "So, what the hell are you blabbering about?" 

"I was..." he trails off nervously. "I was referring to you." 

"Me?" Santana stares at him blankly. "What the hell do you know about me?" 

Daniel puffs up his chest, and it's kind of cute; how he thinks he's so big and bad. It's almost like watching Robin trying to impersonate Batman because Bruce Wayne was hungover or something.

"Nothing," he says, shifting his eyes sideways, "but I know about Rachel, and if you haven't noticed, she's been feeling very...neglected lately." 

Inwardly, Santana wants to laugh—because who the hell is this guy telling her that he knows more about her roommate, her own _best friend_ than she does?—but she frowns instead, because this kid isn't making any type of sense.

"Well, I appreciate your concern and everything, Danny Boy, but Rachel's fine. I'm her bestie, and if there was something going on with her, I'd be the first to know, got it?" 

Daniel blows out a flustered breath of air. He looks just as annoyed as Santana feels. "You really have no idea, do you?" 

It's the first correct thing he's said since he's entered Cobblestones. "Obviously. Does this face look like I'm understanding one word coming out of your mouth?" 

She points at herself, eyes blank and mouth pulled into a tight-lipped expression. Daniel stares at her for a moment, nose scrunched up angrily, before shaking his head and saying, "You know what? Forget it. If Rachel ends up hurt, there'll be nobody left to blame but yourself."

Santana watches him leave and then rolls her eyes so hard she thinks she pulls a muscle in the back of her head. 

That kid got some nerve.

\--

What Daniel says sticks with her, despite the stupidity in his words. He obviously thinks there's something up with her homegirl, and Santana would ask Angela about it—since she spends just as much time with Rachel as Santana does—but Angela's annoying as shit. 

At this point, she'd rather get trampled by a horse than ask Angela about Rachel, so Santana decides to do it herself. Rachel was the one who said they could talk to each other about anything, after all. 

It's only Thursday, two days after Daniel's appearance at Cobblestones, when Santana slips through Rachel's curtain and then plops down on her bed. 

Rachel smiles at her, and then pulls out her earphones as she places her book in her lap. It's one of those never-ending series that Rachel's been engrossed in since high school, and Santana tries not to think about how she even knows that, instead focusing on what's important. 

"Do you feel neglected?" she asks.

Rachel flips through her thick book before setting it aside and giving Santana her full attention. She raises an eyebrow, puzzled. “Um. No. Why would I feel neglected?” 

"I don't know. It's just..." Santana stalls, rolling over on to her back as she tries to remember what it was Daniel said to her on Tuesday. "Daniel stopped by Cobblestones the other day and told me that if you ever ended up hurt, it'd be all my fault. Did this kid start recently smoking grass, or was he just born crazy?"

Rachel's eyes go wild for a moment before she cools her features. Well. That reaction was definitely _not_ okay. "He...Daniel said that? When?"

"Tuesday," Santana says, distractedly messing with the crap strewn all over Rachel's night table. She picks up a bottle of perfume she's never seen before and tries to spray it on her neck, but it ends up right in her mouth. It tastes like apples, but that doesn't stop Santana from coughing and choking on it. 

Rachel scoots over and rubs at Santana's back after handing over a bottle of water, and Santana gulps it down, hoping to get rid of the bitter taste that's stuck to the roof of her mouth. 

Once she’s calmed down, Rachel starts giggling, and that giggling turns into full blown laughter. She doubles over, arms wrapped tight around her midsection as she leans up against Santana, and although it's not even that funny, Santana laughs too, because Rachel's giggling sounds like a freaking deranged monkey on steroids or something.  

“No, but seriously,” Santana says, even though they’re both still smiling, but she’s trying to get this conversation back on track. “You’re not like, I don’t know, sad, right? I know it was hard seeing Finn at the wedding, and I mean, I get it. You _know_ I get it, but you’ve seemed fine to me, and believe me, if I knew there was something wrong I would’ve been—“

“Santana, you’re rambling.” Rachel knits her eyebrows together with a small smile. “And you’re right, I’m fine. No need to worry.”

“Are you su—“

“Positive.”

“Promise?”

Rachel hesitates, and of course Santana notices, but her roommate says, “Promise,” a second later, so Santana takes Rachel at her word, because if it’s one thing they don’t fuck around with, it’s promises. 

\--

It's a week before her birthday, and she has no idea what anyone's planning. She knows Rachel more than likely has something up her sleeve, and Kurt and Henry never ever pass up the opportunity to throw a good house party, so Santana already has an idea of what to expect. 

The thing is, Santana barely even knows anyone in the city yet. There's Cole, who comes around for a quick fuck every now and then, but at least she's consistent. There's Henry, who is her gay brother and awesome on all levels. There's Angela and Daniel, who...well, yeah. And...that's about it. So, if they do end up throwing her a party, it will be both crazy and incredibly lame at the same time. 

Kurt will use any excuse to throw a mixer, and Henry thinks she's been sad lately, which isn't entirely false, so he'll literally do anything to lift her mood.

Really, the only reason she's been slightly out of it recently is because she and Quinn got into yet another argument—which practically happens every other time they talk, so Santana really shouldn't be surprised when one of them ends up hanging up on the other. 

She should have seen this coming. Their personalities have always clashed; what made Santana think they'd magically start getting along now that they've slept together? Blinded by lust, Santana was convinced she and Quinn would finally put their past behind them and do something mature for once, but how naïve Santana was too believe that bullshit. 

Quinn's always had a problem with communication. Even when they were in high school, the blonde oddly kept to herself, so it shouldn't be too surprising that she still fails to show Santana any type of sign that she cares about her. 

Santana has a hard truth to face; she's still sleeping with Cole, and Quinn, more than likely, has a few regulars down at Yale, or else she would've come up to New York for more weeks ago. Santana doesn't know what happened to Quinn, but she's either turned into a pathological liar, or she really is fucking her Pre-Law professor. 

It makes Santana sick just hearing Quinn talk about it, so she hangs up, and then texts her not to call back until she figures out what she wants, because Santana's tired of busting her ass trying to make a connection that's not even there anymore, while Quinn is convinced that what went down between them was nothing more than just a night of freedom and fun. 

Quinn calls back first, after their last argument, and Santana answers, because she knows Quinn hates being ignored. They discuss Santana's application for the summer session of NYU, but there's not really much to talk about anymore since Rachel helped her out with the majority of it.

Eventually, the conversation drains into awkward silences, and Santana can't stand those, so she says she has to go. 

She has a hot date anyway. 

\--

Rachel comes out in these tight sweatpants and says they're going running, but Santana is definitely way too overdressed. She thought Rachel would do something normal for once, like treat her to dinner or something, but nope; Santana needs to learn never to expect the usual when it comes to Rachel Berry. 

Santana's skeptical, but she jumps up from the couch and gets ready anyway, because Rachel's smiling all wide and conspiratorially. 

"I want you to meet someone," Rachel says, after they've ran a whole two miles to this secluded little park in between two brownstones. It's a sad, broken down little place, with a crooked slide, one and a half swings, and a rusted bench, which this old man is sitting on as he feeds a flock of pigeons. 

Basically, it's the creepiest shit Santana's ever seen. "Where the fuck are we?" she whispers into Rachel's ear, but Rachel just laughs and tugs on her hand. They near the old man feeding the pigeons, and he aims a toothy smile at Santana once he sees them approaching. “Rach, what I tell you about talking to strangers?" 

Rachel ignores her with a slap to her shoulder and then says, "Sawyer, this is my best friend and current roommate, Santana Lopez. Santana, this is my park buddy, Mr. Sawyer McRoy."

The old man extends a wrinkled hand, and Santana stares at it for a moment, confused as to how Rachel even knows this guy, but she grabs his hand anyway, after Rachel clears her throat and pushes Santana forward. "It's nice to meet you, sir," she says, remembering her manners. It's been awhile since she's needed them. Like hell she's polite to those ungrateful cretins at Cobblestones. 

It's freezing out here, and Santana's still sweating, so she is literally freezing her ass off in her Cheerios sweatshirt, but it does get a little bit warmer once they all squeeze together on the bench. 

Rachel starts telling Sawyer about her day, and it only takes Santana about thirty seconds of listening to them blabber back and forth for her to realize this is a daily occurrence. And here Santana thought she knew everything about Rachel's day. How wrong she was about a lot of crap. 

Turns out Sawyer is the sickest old man ever. Sick as in cool, which Santana has to explain to Sawyer after he turns a pale white color at the thought of catching pneumonia, which isn't too far out of the realm of possibilities if he makes a habit of sitting out here in the fucking cold every day.  

Santana joins in on the conversation after awhile, and she kind of wishes her abuela had worldly views like Sawyer. Well, she guesses that's what's bound to happen when you live in such an open-minded place like New York City for so long as opposed to Lima, Ohio.

\--

Henry stops by for coffee, but Santana can tell he's here for more than just a caffeine fix by the look on his face.

"So, you've neglected to tell me," he says, wiggling his eyebrows, and Santana's about to tell him to never do that again, because it's fucking weird, but before she can get the chance, he asks, "How'd that thing go with the girl you _might_ have feelings for?"

Santana scoffs, because that's old news. "That's over and done with. It was stupid to even think I ever had feelings for Quinn anyway, given our fucked up history and the thousands of times she screwed me over."

She's been thinking about it a lot lately—more than she'll ever admit aloud, because she is _not_ that broken up over this—and she's come to a reasonable conclusion. The only reason Santana was so suddenly enamored with Quinn was because she was just projecting her heartbreak onto her friend after finding out about Brittany and Sam.

It's always been about Britt anyway, so why would it be any different now? Santana is nothing but consistent, after all. 

She hefts herself up on to the counter and swings her legs over the edge. Her boss is out today, so she has the whole store to herself. (Pat's here too, but whatever. He has no say over what she does.) 

Santana shrugs. “Sometimes it's just nice to pretend to like someone you know can never hurt you too bad, you know.” 

“Um, I guess, but hold up.” Henry leans against the counter beside her. “Who is Quinn?" 

"The crazy psycho I wasted a whole three weeks thinking I liked just because she fucked my brains out." Santana hears laughter coming from the storage room in the back, and she rolls her eyes. Pat is such a moron. 

"Quinn," Henry drawls, eyes narrowed on the floor in realization. “ _She’s_ the friend you were referring to? I thought you were talking about—“

“This is un-freaking-believable. Do you not listen to me when I'm speaking?" 

Henry just plasters on a fake smile and nods, because of course he listens, which you'd expect, right? He's that awesome gay boy who's dating one of her roommates, and gay boys love gossip and drama. Stereotypes are call stereotypes for a reason. They're not always true, and Santana needs to remember that the next time she starts pouring her heart out to somebody she just met a few months ago. 

Rachel would've listened to her yap on for hours about Quinn Fabray, no matter how much she disliked the girl in high school, and speaking of Rachel, here she comes now. She greets Henry, who's face is even redder than usual, and then asks for a refill, because she knows anything goes when the boss is out. 

Santana grabs her cup and gets to it as Rachel asks, "So, what’s going on over here?”

Both Santana and Henry rush to sputter, "Nothing," and Rachel squints her eyes in confusion at the both of them before reminding Santana that her college application is due soon. 

Santana's eyes cut to Henry as Rachel walks to her table in the back, and they both give each other strange looks. "You know something," she says, but Henry just shrugs with that stupid expression on his face before leaving the coffee shop. 

Shaking her head, Santana laughs to herself, because she’ll get the truth out of him one way or another. Henry can hold water, sure, but he’ll soon let it drain, and when he does, Santana will be ready, because whatever he knows, it’s probably something juicy.

Though whatever it’s about, she hopes it has nothing to do with Rachel’s recently odd behavior. Santana still has a feeling Rachel’s lying to her about something. She doesn’t know _what_ , exactly, but her physic Mexican third-eye is telling her it’s something really important, and possibly damaging.

As Santana wipes down the counter, she catches Rachel’s eye from across the room. Rachel smiles shyly, curling a strand of hair behind her ear before looking back down at her textbook, and Santana hides a smirk as she gets back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed Santana's POV, because i do plan on venturing back there later in the series for more than one part. thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> i like to stir the pot, but don't worry. this is a pezberry fic, not quinntana


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